


Love in the Time of Video Conferencing

by Elizabeth



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, 5+1+1 Things now, Academia, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Covid-19 Related, Don't Judge Me, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Humor, M/M, Quarantine, Tech humor, Touch-Starved, Webcam/Video Chat Sex, Zoom - Freeform, actual sex too, graphic depictions of working from home, no graphic depictions of illness, omg they were zoommates, this is how I'm coping with this, video conferencing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:16:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23423803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: Pestilence is a bitch, and the entire university has had to shift to e-learning overnight. Jaskier is a systems admin being forced to pick up slack for the overwhelmed help desk. Work ended hours ago, so why is he on a support call with the most technologically-incapable history professor he's ever met? And really, what is the deal with this guy?Based on the "OMG they were Zoommates" prompt from the AO3 comment Tumblr.This is, five times Jaskier and Geralt used Zoom for tech support, and one time they used Zoom for... something else.I apologize if this upsets you; it helps me cope with the emotions, so I'm hoping to channel stress into fluff and put it out there so it can possibly help others.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 578
Kudos: 1336
Collections: Lock Down Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Again, entirely because of that Tumblr prompt from AO3commentoftheday. I don't know how to hyperlink in here because I am a librarian, not a programmer (or good at that sort of thing). Credit for inspiration goes completely to them.
> 
> Characterizations are a hybrid of game, books, AND show Geralt and Dandelion.
> 
> I do not own characters or profit; I am only thankful they exist, especially right now.

~ONE~

It is possible, Jaskier thinks, that the man has never seen a computer before. It makes sense. In some ways, it is the only explanation. Because it certainly doesn’t make sense that a man could possibly be so entirely useless with a basic application. All it requires is clicking a link, accepting the download, clicking to run it, and typing a name. Typing a name isn’t even required, really. He could type “x.”

Unfortunately, Jabber is set up to forward his desk calls to his cell, so here he is, _after work hours_ , talking the fool through it.

He doesn’t sound like an idiot, if Jaskier is honest. And yet...

“I did that. It didn’t do anything,” the man repeats.

“It did, though. It did _something_. You just don’t _see_ what it did.” If he was at his desk, he would just remote into the guy’s computer and take over for it. Run it. Demonstrate.

“If it did something, I would see it.” The man’s voice is gruff—almost artificially so, like he’s channeling Batman or something. Jaskier wonders if he’s angry, sick, or constipated. Maybe all three.

“Look, are you on your work computer?”

“Yes.”

“And which department is it?”

“History.”

 _Of course. He’s probably eighty_. “So it’s a MacBook.”

“Mm,” he grunts.

 _Eloquent, for a PhD._ “Okay, which browser are you using?”

“What?”

“The top of the window. What does it say? Safari? Chrome? Firefox?”

“Safari.”

“And you clicked on the downloads and it opened up a window?”

“No.”

“Okay, copy and paste the link into Chrome or Firefox.” It shouldn’t matter, it really shouldn’t.

“What link?”

Jaskier holds the phone away from his head and takes a deep breath. He lets it out nice and slow. “The Zoom meeting link.”

“Where the fuck am I supposed to get that?”

“I’m sorry, what? Where are you supposed to get the meeting link? What did you click on to get this far?”

“I got the email that said there was a meeting and that it was a Zoom.” He lets out an irritated noise, as if the entire concept is absurd and beneath him.

“Yes, and the email should have provided a link, and maybe even information about a meeting password.”

“Meeting password? Why would there be a meeting password? It isn’t a goddamn fraternity.”

Jaskier puts his phone on speaker so he can hold his head in his hands. “Okay. Okay. When was the meeting supposed to be?”

“It’s Thursday.”

“It’s not even today?” He’s getting hysterical, he knows. He forces himself to smile. “Right. It’s on Thursday.”

“It would be foolish to be unprepared.”

“Of course. Foolish. Look, can you open up Firefox? Or Chrome. Either one, really.”

“Firefox.”

“Very good.”

“Don’t be condescending. You’re asking me to completely alter pedagogical methods overn—”

“ _I_ am not asking you to do anything, mister.” _It’s doctor,_ Jaskier thinks. He waits for the man to correct him in five, four, three, two…

“I know.”

 _Wow. Surprising_. Jaskier sighs. “Okay, you have it open now?”

“I have to click on the windows about importing bookmarks.”

“Right. Tell me when that’s closed.”

“It is importing them.”

Jaskier cringes. The man probably saves all his passwords in the browser, too. Jaskier _does not_ grind his teeth.

“Okay.”

“Good. In the address bar, type zoom dot u s slash j dot five five five, two three four, zero eight one two. And then hit enter.”

A moment passes, and the man says, “It asked me to download or run the application.”

“Good! Good. Okay, click to run it.” Jaskier isn’t certain if he actually _does_ need to download it or if it just needs to open. Zoom always asks. It’s one of its quirks.

“Okay.”

“Did it download?”

“How the hell—”

“The arrow beside the address bar. Did it change colors?”

“Yes.”

“Click there.”

“It asks if I want to—”

“Click yes. Run it. Open it. Everything.”

“This is foolish.”

“What?”

“Accepting anything the computer asks.”

“Normally yes, but you’re with me right now.”

“I am not with you. No one is with anybody right now.”

Jaskier bites back any reply he might make. He’s upset; it _all_ upsets him a _lot_ ; he lets it go. “You’ll get to a password. The password is dandelion.”

His Zoom doorbell chimes. “Oh, just a second, I have somebody in my waiting room.” The man grunts in response. Jaskier clicks on his Zoom window. One person is in his waiting room, a Geralt z Rivia. _Is that Polish?_ Jaskier thinks. He lets the person in, ready to kick them right back out in a second. Instead, a rugged man of… middle? age? Maybe younger. Maybe Jaskier’s age? He can’t tell. A man with stunning—and stunningly angry—features and long silver hair comes on the screen. He looks startled. His mouth moves, but Jaskier can’t hear.

“What the bloody hell?” says the man on the phone. “It just comes right on?”

Jaskier realizes the voice syncs with the mouth moving on the screen. “Oh, it’s you! Huh.”

“What do you mean, huh?”

“You, uh, I just didn’t exp—I don’t mean anything. You need to click to enter with, um, do you have a headset you’re going to use, or are you just relying on the MacBook?”

“MacBook.”

“Okay, click to enter with computer audio.”

“Fine.”

Jaskier sees he’s unmuted. He looks at the man on his computer. “I’m going to hang up now.”

“Which?”

“The phone.”

The man beats him to it. Jaskier sees him toss the phone to the side and he cringes. “Hm,” says the man.

“Okay, so, It’s, um, Geralt? Is that your name?”

“Yes. Geralt z Rivia.”

“Oh. That’s interesting.”

“Why?”

“Just an interesting name. I’m not sure where that comes from. Central European?” _Not Rivii, but Rivia; not de or du but z_.

“What kind of a name is Jaskier?”

“It’s just a nickname for certain things.”

“What is your actual name?”

Jaskier is taken aback. No one has asked him this at work. “Julian.”

“Just Julian?”

“Julian Pankratz.”

“Hm. That’s interesting.”

“Why?”

“ _Just an interesting name_ ,” Geralt repeats back. “You know Jaskier means buttercup, right?”

Jaskier blinks. He should expect this when dealing with professors, but it catches him off guard. Perhaps it’s because this man does _not_ look like a professor. He’s… fit. Like, he definitely lifts. Jaskier wonders if he’s been doing P90X or something to stay fit during the lockdown. “I do know that, yes.”

“Hm.”

“You say that a lot.”

He sees Geralt make an angry face. “Are we done here?”

“No, no, I want to make sure you know how to get this up and running. Are you going to be teaching remote classes like this?”

Geralt frowns even more. “Yes.”

“Then you want to make sure you are signed in to your account. You have the Zoom app on your computer now.”

“It actually said I already did.”

“Okay that makes a lot more sense. So you have the application. You should see it in your Launch Pad.”

“It was not in my Launch Pad, remember?”

“Okay, well, let’s just work our way around that. Right click on the icon in your dock, and then select to have it stay in your dock.”

“Hm. What do you want me to call you?”

“Huh?”

“What do you want me to call you?”

“What? Why? Now?”

“Jaskier or Julian?”

“Oh. Um, I guess Jaskier. It doesn’t matter, really.”

“Yes it does. Names are important.”

“Is your family from Rivia, then? Is that what that means?” Jaskier isn’t sure why he’s being so snippy with the man. It’s been a long day. _It’s been a long week_ , the thinks. _It’s been a long fucking year._ Okay, maybe he does know. This isn’t Geralt’s fault. He tries to reset his attitude while he watches Geralt purse his lips, or maybe grimace. He turns half away, and Jaskier can’t tell. Instead, he can tell that the man has a jaw made of iron, and his just-too-long facial hair is covering a chin dimple. _He’d be pretty if_ —he stops himself. He may be home, but he is at work.

Except he isn’t. Work would have ended two hours ago. Absently, Jaskier collapses into his kitchen chair. Geralt seems to stare at his computer. “What is that behind you?”

Jaskier turns around. It’s his turn to cringe. “That is a painting a friend gave me.”

“It looks like you.”

“It is.”

“Who’s the woman?”

“Excuse me?”

“In the painting?”

 _A bit personal, Christ_. “That is another friend.”

“Ah.”

“Ah what?”

“Nothing. Are you holding a lute in it?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you holding a lute?”

“Because I play the lute. In a band. And that’s Priscilla, my partner.”

Geralt opens his mouth like he’s going to ask more, but then he stops himself. “This is strange.”

“It can be, yeah, if people try to interrogate each other. What’s behind you? Is that a… Wait. Is that a sword?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you have a sword?”

“Why wouldn’t I have a sword?”

“Right.” He watches Geralt rub his face with his hands. “I think I have this. You just talk like the phone but you can see people.”

“Well no, there’s more than that. Did you watch the tutorial videos put out by the instructional technologists?”

Geralt just stares at him.

“I take that as a no. Okay, um, well, hover over the bottom of the window, and then the top. See, you’ll be able to change the view from speaker mode to gallery view, which shows everyone. You can share screen _if_ the host has it enabled. You’ll probably want to shut that off in your settings. Which you’re going to need to have your account set up for. Here, let’s just do that now.”

“Huh?”

“Your settings. Open up your Zoom application and sign in with your university credentials.”

He walks him through the steps. He walks him through the advanced settings in the browser. He only has to share his screen twice. “Hm,” is Geralt’s response.

“Okay,” Jaskier yawns. “I think you got it.”

“You are tired. It’s only eight.”

“I haven’t been able to sleep well lately.”

“Have you left your flat?”

“No, I’ve only had a few things delivered.”

“Why can’t you sleep?”

“I don’t know, probably because there’s a global crisis, and even the competent government responses are being sabotaged by the incompetent ones.”

“Hm,” Geralt says, and somehow Jaskier knows he’s agreeing. “You helped me. You should sleep tonight.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

“Why the lute?”

“Um. It’s only the lute sometimes.”

“What else, then? The hurdy-gurdy?”

“Wha—” Jaskier sputters, “Was that a joke?”

Geralt narrows his eyes.

“It’s the lute and guitar, mostly.”

“Hm.”

“I learned several years ago. I was gifted it by an acquaintance, and of course I needed to learn once I had it. It’s a beautiful instrument. Much nicer than the guitar I used previously, most of the time. And this one…” He trails off. _Why am I telling him this?_ He’s doing that thing again, where someone shows a bit of interest and he just _goes off_.

“So why are you working at a university help desk?”

“I’m not the help desk, Geralt. I’m taking calls because we’re overloaded.”

“So what are you?”

“I’m a… a systems administrator… expert.” It sounds ridiculous to say it out load, but it’s in the title.

“Hm. Not a musician?”

“I know this will come as a surprise to someone who works in an ivory tower, but high-demand jobs have changed since the Renaissance.”

“The lute was significant well into the Baroque period, Jaskier.”

Jaskier can see his mouth gape open like a fish.

“Are you any good?”

“Pfft. Do you want to hear?”

“No.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Right.”

"Now are we finished?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Go to sleep."

Jaskier tries not to pout, but he sees he's doing it. It's instinctual, somehow, in response to the gruff tone. "Fine," he says a bit petulantly.

"Good night, Jaskier."

"Good night, Geralt."

He ends the meeting for all and closes his laptop.

As he lays his head on his pillow, he thinks, _I helped him, and that helped all of his students._

He sleeps.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second time Geralt and Jaskier use Zoom for tech help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay for real, I was planning on an every-few-days update schedule, but I loved your comments a lot and they really, really motivated me. So, thank you! 
> 
> This chapter probably has more academia humor than tech humor... I hope at least one or two people find it funny. ^_^

~TWO~

Afternoons are the hardest. Spring is a subtle eruption; first tiny buds on trees, and then flowers in the planters and sunshine on the pavement. Jaskier’s flat has four windows, and none of them lets in enough air to satisfy.

He sprawls on his sofa and closes his eyes, but the caffeine in his system makes him jittery. He tells himself it’s the caffeine. It’s Thursday. The questions have slowed. His hands feel cool on his face. He can hear birds outside, and he wants to walk to the café on the corner. He wants to sit at his usual table, the one outside, two down from the lamppost, with the wicker seat. He could watch people pass and write songs about them in his journal. He makes a mental note to order new pens when this is over.

He wonders if it will be over.

His computer starts to play a little song. Something is ringing, but the tune isn’t one he’s accustomed to. He hops up and rushes to the kitchen table, which has turned into his office. It’s Zoom. He realizes he hasn’t ever received a call like this; usually he starts a meeting and invites guests, or he joins someone else’s meeting. It has to be someone on his contacts list, which includes the entire university, now.

When he sees the name, he catches himself smiling. It’s the strange man from before, with the sword. Then he thinks, _He needs to call the help desk_. He frowns. He rejects the call.

It rings again.

Jaskier sighs. He clicks to accept it. “Geralt. Hi.”

Geralt, like before, is wearing a black Oxford shirt. Jaskier wonders if he always dresses so formally, or if it’s either specifically for teaching or home. It’s stretched over his shoulders and biceps, which doesn’t seem comfortable. He said he had a video conference on Thursday; he’s probably dressed for a department meeting. His hair is pulled half back today, and his face is shaved. _Dimple_ , thinks Jaskier. “I have to use this Canvas thing,” Geralt says. His voice is even rougher than it was the last time. The week must not be going well.

“I’m well, thanks.”

Geralt glares, but since he isn’t looking at the webcam, the effect is softened. “Good.”

“Okay, now you should call the help desk or contact the office of instructional technology. There should be someone assigned to the history depart—”

“They’re useless. I want you.”

Jaskier smirks. He doesn’t want to die or lose his job for harassment, however, so he lets the joke go. He takes in the dark circles under Geralt’s eyes. The sword behind him is now leaning against an end table. Jaskier rubs the back of his neck. “Right. I mean, I can try to help, but I don’t use Canvas.”

“Fine. I need to put this week’s lecture notes on the Canvas.” He looks exhausted.

“How was your meeting?”

Geralt stares at the screen for a moment in silence. He purses his lips. “More irritating than usual.”

Jaskier sees his reflection’s eyebrows come together. “Why?”

“Because it was on the computer.”

“Why are they usually irritating?”

“Because there are people.”

“Ah. No, this makes total sense. Why _wouldn’t_ a man who dislikes people go into a field where he has to talk to people all day?”

Geralt’s face becomes less a stare than a glower. “I don’t _talk_ to people, I _teach_ people.”

“Isn’t that just a different type of conversation?”

“No. I talk, they listen.”

“Oh, right, then I stand corrected. You aren’t a teacher, you’re a preacher.” He leans forward. “I believe I’ve taken your class, now that I think about it.”

Geralt’s eyes are an unusual gold color. They narrow. “You talk too much.”

“Then _call the help desk_.” Jaskier pushes on his temples. A breeze comes through his flat and he shivers. _Maybe the fresh air is coming in after all._

“You should put on a jacket.”

Jaskier looks at his image. He’s dressed for work, too, in a loose blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up. It’s one of his favorite shirts. There’s a subtle pattern embroidered along the cuffs, though it isn’t visible now. “I’m fine. Help desk.”

“They—I can’t talk to them.” He waits for Jaskier to respond, and when he doesn’t, he continues, “They are… discourteous. And brainless.”

“And I’m courteous and brilliant?”

Geralt looks like a caricature of disappointment. “You are fine. Just, please, Jaskier.”

Jaskier sees himself smile before he feels it. _He is so weird_ , he thinks. “Okay, look, I really don’t know anything about Canvas, but since I’m your new best friend and everything,” he ignores the scoff, “we’ll see if we can muddle through together.” He picks up his laptop and starts to carry it back toward the sofa.

“Wha—what’s happening? Why are you moving?”

“Because, Geralt, It’s Thursday afternoon. I’ve gotten one good night of sleep in the past dozen or so, and I’m going to sit on the sofa and be comfortable while we do this.”

“Hm. Your apartment looks small.”

“Pfft. Tell me about it.” He turns around slowly, gesturing. “This is it. Kitchen in there.”

“That’s it? It’s a studio?”

“Oh, no, one bedroom, one bath.”

“Surely you make enough to afford more than that.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

“You're a grown man, not a student. Clearly you're... decent... at your job.”

“Yes, well, I pay for location, not square footage. And now, that’s really biting me in the butt. And not in a good way.” He bites his lip, keeping the cringe internal. _I said that._ This conversation perfectly illustrates why he doesn’t do phone support. Then again, this isn’t a typical support call.

“Go back.”

“What?”

“The window. Show it again.”

Jaskier turns his laptop around so it faces the double window in the living room. “That one?”

“I know that building.”

“Oh.”

“I do not live far from you.”

“So you should understand the cost of living here. I just can’t see your place well enough to criticize it.”

Geralt nods. “It’s sufficient.”

Jaskier waits, but Geralt doesn’t move the computer from his fixed spot. “Right. Let’s…” he waves his hands in a circular motion. “You know.”

“The Canvas.”

“Right. _The_ Canvas. Do you have it open?”

“Yes. It is open. There are classes, but not the right one.”

Jaskier blinks. “I think it may be better if you can show me.”

“How would I—oh, like you did. Hm.”

“Yeah, click on the share screen symbol—it should be in the middle—”

“I did. I am.” Geralt’s voice is tetchy. He disappears for a moment, and Jaskier sees, in his place, what must be his desktop. It features a picture of one of the most sensual women he’s ever seen, accompanied by a spirited-looking preteen girl.

“Oh,” says Jaskier.

“Yes, I'm not an idiot.”

“No, no, I didn’t think you were.”

“Then what surprised you, if not that I can click a button?”

“I, uh, I didn’t realize you were married,” he says. He hastily adds, “Because I didn’t see or hear anyone.”

Geralt is quiet a moment. “I am not married. Why would you think I am married?”

“The picture, then, is just your… sister?” _Unlikely, with that hair color_. Though the woman’s could be dyed. Or Geralt’s could. He looks at Geralt in the small video feed. Something tells him that isn’t dye.

“Yen is most certainly neither a wife nor a sister.”

Jaskier scratches his chin. “Ex?” _How sad, to keep an ex’s picture on your desktop._

“Mm. Technically. She is a friend.”

“And is that your daughter?”

Jaskier thinks it’s probably crazy, but he can _hear_ Geralt soften. “Yes. My goddaughter.” He can’t make out his expression in the tiny window.

“Oh.”

“She put the picture there and I can’t get rid of it.”

“It’s pretty simple, you just—”

“I can’t.”

“O-kay.” He blinks a few times. “Go ahead and pull up Canvas.” He watches the window open. The page that comes up, he knows, is the Dashboard. “So that’s your classes.”

“These are my classes, but not the right one. These are baccalaureate. I am looking for a graduate seminar I’m currently teaching called Autocrats, Oligarchs, and Plutocrats: Capitalism and Fascism in the Modern Age.”

“Wait, what? That’s really the name of a class?” Geralt doesn’t respond. “Click there on Courses on the side. Ah, yes, see, click there to view all of them. Yep.”

The list loads. Jaskier reads. Sure enough, it isn’t there. “I told you it isn’t here.”

“Well what are each of these classes?”

“Western civilization,” Geralt hovers over the courses, “and The Rise of Nazism.”

“Is this real or a Don DeLillo novel?”

“I loathe Don DeLillo.”

Jaskier snorts. “Yeah.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He smiles his most charming smile, and then realizes Geralt probably isn’t looking at him. _I hate Don DeLillo, too_ , he thinks. He leans back on the sofa and realizes Geralt hasn’t said anything else. “Geralt?”

Geralt clears his throat. “This is Postcolonial Historiography.” Jaskier’s eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t say anything. “And this is last semester’s—wait. No, that’s this seminar. Hm.” He hovers over a class simply named HIS and a series of numbers. He clicks on it.

“No, no wait!”

“What?”

“Click back and then click the star thing.”

Geralt clicks back, waits for the page to load, and clicks on the star. He makes a humming noise. It’s low and throaty, an interesting pitch and timbre.

“Now click on it.” Jaskier watches the class page load. “Okay, we found it.”

“I found it.”

“I was here, thank you, being very important.”

Geralt looks nonplussed, even tiny.

“I was! You wouldn’t have gone through each of them without me!”

“Now what the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“Jesus Geralt.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Uhh, you said you want to put your lecture notes on here?”

“Yes. And the department chair wants us to record ourselves.”

“Record yourself?”

“Teaching.”

“I figured, yeah. For that, you probably want Panopto, over there on the side. Actually, you could probably do a screencast with Panopto going over your lecture notes and upload that, and then you wouldn’t have to do multiple uploads. Plus it’ll get the students to actually watch your lecture, right?”

“This is recording me?”

“What is?”

“The Canvas?”

“I… don’t… understand.”

“Is it _watching_ me?”

“What are you talking about Geralt?”

Geralt clicks on Panopto. “Is it always recording me, then?”

“ _Oooh_.” Jaskier laughs. It feels good, so he laughs some more.

“What is funny?”

“Panopto is just a plug-in to make recordings. Not panopticon. Although, I mean, I guess that’s unavoidable, right?” He chuckles, and he hears Geralt sniff—which he figures he’ll take as a laugh.

“I don’t know how this works.”

“Well, let’s figure it out.”

Twenty minutes later, Geralt says, “And now I just record myself talking.”

“That’s the idea.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can.”

“No, I rely on visual feedback as a formative assessment.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“I have to see the students to teach them.”

“Well you could always do a live chat on Zoom. Get in a little social time.”

“ _Absolutely not_.” He sounds like he’s in pain.

“Why?”

“I can’t talk to people on this.”

“You’re talking to me.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Geralt takes a moment to respond. He stares hard at his screen, eyes motionless. When Jaskier leans forward to see him better, Geralt blinks. “It just is.”

“Well then just… I don’t know. Teach me.”

“What?”

“If you need, this first time, just do your lecture with me, record it, and we’ll upload that.”

“I can see you.”

“That is the point, yes.”

“Won’t you be in the recording?”

“Yeah. So?”

“People will look at you.”

Jaskier tugs at his neckline, watching himself on his screen. “Well, it’s good that I look so cute today, then, isn’t it?”

He watches Geralt open and close his mouth a few times. He clears his throat. “You would— _ahem_ —you would do that?” He pulls back a little, and Jaskier can’t see his face as well. He leans closer, as if that will help, and then leans back.

“Sure. I mean, yes. Why not? It’s not like I have somewhere to be.” He makes a sweeping gesture. “How long is the lecture? An hour?”

Geralt sits for a moment, staring at his screen again. Jaskier leans forward, and so does Geralt. Geralt clears his throat _again_. “Yes. It should be. Usually.” Jaskier can see him lick his lips. “Your eyes are very blue,” he says.

Jaskier blinks. Twice.

"In this light. It's not evening. Yet. Like before."

It takes longer than an hour because Jaskier keeps asking questions.

The first time, Geralt glares at him. He says, “Don’t interrupt me.”

“You said—”

“Fine.” He answers the question. It’s easier after that.

As Geralt talks, he loosens. His shoulders relax. At one point, he reaches up and absently undoes another button on his shirt. He moves his hands to emphasize certain ideas. “Are you still listening?” he asks at another point, and Jaskier nods. _He really is striking_ , he thinks. He forces himself to focus.

When he’s done, Geralt stops the recording before Jaskier can tell him how. “That was actually really interesting,” Jaskier admits.

Geralt stops his screen share in time for Jaskier to watch his jaw flex. “Of course it’s interesting. Why wouldn’t it be interesting?”

“Well, you’re certainly not like any professor I ever had.”

“What does that mean?”

“For one, my history professors were all geriatric. They certainly didn’t _look_ like you.”

Geralt’s brow furrows. He looks down at himself. “Why? Because I’m not wearing a jacket?”

Jaskier releases a little breathy laugh. “No, it’s because you’re—” He stops, biting his lip to silence himself. “You’re just different.”

He can barely make it out as Geralt mutters, “So they tell me.” His voice is bitter.

“Not in a bad way, Geralt. In a good… a good way.” He swallows.

Geralt tugs at his collar and scratches his throat. It pulls his shirt open further. _He has a hairy chest_ , thinks Jaskier. _Of course he has a hairy chest_. He takes a deep breath, which ends up surprisingly loud. He tries to quieten it halfway through, and chokes a little. When he’s finished coughing, Geralt is watching him. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, just choked a little.”

“On?”

“Nothing.” _Just my dignity_. He rubs his throat.

“You’re sure you’re alright?”

“Yes.”

“So now what?”

Jaskier frowns. “Huh?”

Geralt stares, unblinking, at the computer. “The video.”

“Oh! Actually you should screen share again. I’m not totally sure.”

It takes another half hour to save the video and post it on Canvas. “Do you want to preview it?” Jaskier asks.

“ _No_.” Geralt looks repulsed, and it’s such an odd mixture of terrifying and adorable that Jaskier laughs again. “I’m glad one of us is enjoying this.”

“I really am,” Jaskier admits. He realizes it’s true. “Huh.” He stares at Geralt, who is again staring, unblinking, at his screen. “A lot of people can’t help but stare at themselves until they get used to it, I know. You just have to remember to not start playing with your hair.”

“I’m not staring at myself.”

Jaskier remembers the woman in the desktop wallpaper. He feels a strange little twist in his stomach. “Something else, then.”

“I’m watching you, you halfwit. We’re having a conversation.”

Even stranger, his stomach lurches a little. He thinks, _Oh god. I’m sick._ And then he thinks, _Oh._ _Oh god. I’m not sick._ Then he realizes he’s just sitting there, not responding. “Uh, yeah. Right. We are.”

“Are your lips chapped?”

Jaskier draws back. “A little. Why?”

“You keep biting them. They’re very…” he trails off. “Hm.”

They sit for another moment, until Jaskier can’t take it. “Okay I better get back to work now.”

Geralt seems to shake himself. “Of course.”

“It was… Right. Just, um, you can call the help desk if you have any questions, or just… You know.” He swallows. He watches Geralt move his hand toward the screen. _He’s using the trackpad._ “Let me know if there’s any other way we can assist you, and take care.”

“Bye, Julian.” He ends the meeting.

“Oh,” Jaskier says. “Oh no.” He closes the Zoom app, pushes away his computer, and puts his elbows on his knees. He puts his face in his hands. He stares at the pattern in the rug. “Okay. Well. Definitely never going to see him again, so. Probably good.”

He throws himself across the sofa and flails a little. _Let me know if there’s any other way we can assist you_. _Take care._ “I’m such a fucking idiot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd love to know what you think so far!  
> The build-up has begun...... !!
> 
> And THANK YOU for reading. I appreciate your click and your time. Talk to me here or Tumblr. <3 <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third time Jaskier and Geralt use Zoom for tech support.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried to edit this a few times now, but I, like Jas, am having trouble sleeping. Apologies for any typos.

~THREE~

Friday passes. Jaskier’s father calls at precisely 12:15, when he knows there’s no excuse to not take the call. “You are well, I presume.”

“Is that a question?” Jaskier asks.

“You are welcome here, of course, at Lettenhove.”

Jaskier considers. Father is at his home in the country, probably expecting the staff to continue work as if nothing is happening. At least they’re distant. _Hard pass._ “No thanks. There’s more of a chance that I’ll bring something there with me.”

“When was the last time you left your… flat?”

“I bought groceries the other day.”

“At a shop?” He sounds horrified.

“Oh no, Father, I have another call. It’s my boss, so I have to take it! Bye!” He hangs up and places his phone on the coffee table.

Later, he puts on a yoga video and actually does a few vinyasas. Then he gets out his lute. It’s beautiful. Even now that he’s had it a few years, it takes his breath away when he stops to truly look at it. He sits cross-legged on his living room floor and strums a little tune. He needs to shower. He looks down at himself and thinks about how some people are probably using this time to exercise every day.

He thinks about Geralt, the weird history professor.

He thinks about how Geralt doesn’t actually seem that weird.

He thinks about how good-looking Geralt the history professor is.

He plays a different tune on his lute.

Friday night, he re-watches the first three episodes of _The X-Files_ and thinks about Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny in the nineties. He googles how old Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny are. He thinks about what a glow-up the past three decades have been for Gillian Anderson. He tries to sleep.

Saturday morning, he _can_ actually sleep, so he stays in bed past eleven. He orders delivery because he wants to support the local economy and he’s tired of cooking. He feels guilty about ordering delivery.

He thinks about Geralt, the good-looking, weird history professor. “I should read a book,” he says out loud. He thinks, _Geralt, the good-looking, weird history professor probably exercises every day_. He thinks about Geralt’s shoulders—one of the only parts of his body he’s seen—and how broad they are. He wonders if he’s objectifying him. He wonders if that’s bad, or if it’s okay to acknowledge an objectively handsome man is handsome.

He thinks about the word _handsome_ , how odd it is. He googles “etymology of handsome.” He’s disappointed by the etymology of handsome. He thinks about how it’s weird to be disappointed by etymology and wonders what he would consider interesting etymology. He googles “etymology of lute.” He thinks about how much more interesting _lute_ is than _handsome_. He wonders if he’s biased. He wonders if it’s ethnocentric to think some languages have more aesthetically-pleasing sounds than others, and if it matters that the one he doesn’t like as much is his native language. He thinks Geralt the handsome, weird history professor would have an opinion about it; he seems to have an opinion on everything, based on his lecture.

He really wants to ask him. He looks around his flat, which is a mess. He decides he should clean, instead.

He thinks he’s probably going to go mad before this is finished.

He cleans. The flat isn’t that big. It takes fifty-three minutes. He takes a shower. That takes twenty-seven minutes. He puts on old lounge pants and his favorite t-shirt, which is soft and grey, with a deep v-neck. It makes him feel good. He combs his hair again. He considers using product, but doesn’t. He realizes he didn’t apply deodorant and wonders if there’s any point. He does it anyway and thinks about the panopticon, which brings him back to Geralt. The opinionated, handsome, weird history professor.

He sits on the floor in front of his sofa and opens his laptop.

He opens Zoom.

He opens Chat.

Under Recent, he sees Geralt z Rivia. The circle beside the name is empty.

He unlocks his phone and starts to google Rivia, then locks it again. _Too much_ , he thinks. He picks up his lute and starts playing.

The circle turns green.

Jaskier sucks in an embarrassingly deep breath. He lets it back out. He clicks on the name and sees the call history.

He closes Zoom. He decides to read a book.

Sunday may as well not exist. If anyone asks what he did—which is unlikely to happen anyway—he won’t have a response. YouTube. Leftovers. Saltines from the back of the cupboard. He flosses before he goes to bed because he figures it’s productive. He has friends he could text. He writes in his journal until he falls asleep.

Monday morning, Jaskier showers and eats breakfast. Oatmeal. He thaws frozen berries to add to it. He makes coffee. He puts product in his hair. He wears a billowy white shirt he bought on holiday a couple of years ago. He leaves two buttons undone and puts on a leather necklace; he sits through a conference call and feels better. He opens the windows and stands at one, drinking a second cup.

The university is replacing a few vendors. He runs some tests. He fixes a problem with the remote lab.

The workday ends. He takes his laptop and sets it on the coffee table. He leans against the sofa again and tries to find a tune for one of the songs he wrote Sunday night. The rhymes are rough, but it has some good images.

And then his Zoom receives a call. His stomach turns over. He grins, and then straightens his face. “Hello Geralt.”

“What the fuck is a box?”

Jaskier tries to think of the appropriate answer to that question. “Um.”

“What are you doing?”

“Playing my lute.”

“Why are you dressed like that?”

“Work?”

“Hm.”

“Why?”

“What is a box?”

“Are you really asking me this?” Geralt glares at him. “Do you only own one shirt?”

Geralt looks down. “What’s wrong with my shirt?”

“You’ve worn the same thing every time I’ve seen you.”

“Work.” He shrugs.

“Wait, where are you?”

Geralt lifts an eyebrow. “Home.”

“It’s a different room!”

“Hmm.” Geralt looks around. He must be sitting at a table of some sort, and Jaskier can see a room over his shoulder. He can’t make much out other than a bookcase along the wall and an open window. “I am at the kitchen table, not my office.”

“Where’s your sword?”

“In the office.”

“Naturally.”

Geralt sits for a moment, silent and still. “So.”

“Sooo. Yes?”

“Box.”

“Oh, right. What now?”

“What is the box?”

“ _Ooh_. _Box_. I see.” Jaskier chuckles. “What about it?”

“The department chair said she put a spreadsheet in my box. I am supposed to fill out the spreadsheet. I need to find this box and open it to get to the spreadsheet.”

“Well it isn’t a literal box, you know.”

Geralt squints, and then his brow dips. He says, “Yes, I know,” in a voice like acid.

“Right, I know, I’m just joking!”

“You aren’t very funny.”

“What? I’m extremely funny. Everybody thinks I’m funny. You just have no sense of humor.”

Geralt looks anything but amused. “Box.”

“Okay, open up a browser.”

“I have.”

“Now this is going to blow your mind.” _Too snarky_ , he thinks. _Be professional_. “Uh, type box—”

“It is the blue thing, then.”

“Yes.”

Geralt closes his eyes, tight, for a moment. “Of course it is.”

“You look less tired today. Have the classes been better?”

“What do you mean, _less tired_?”

“Um, just that before you were, you know, tired looking.”

“You look like a troubadour.”

“Oh, thank you!”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“Oh. Okay. Wow.”

“Just an observation.”

“O-kay.” Jaskier looks toward his window. A breeze is shifting the curtain in a lazy pulse, up and down.

“It also wasn’t an insult, Jaskier. It was an observation. Except, of course, a respectable medieval musician would never expose that much skin.”

Jaskier considers his chest. He tilts his head down, then looks up at the screen. “I guess it’s good I’m not very respectable then, isn’t it.”

Geralt doesn’t respond. He waits a moment, then licks his lips and says, “I downloaded the blue thing, but then I can’t open the folder.”

“Oh that’s right—it’s because you have to sign in through the browser first.” It’s an easy fix, actually. Jaskier wants to be happy about it. He isn’t.

Geralt noisily exhales. “I assume I click on the website login.”

“Yes, that should do it.”

Geralt nods. Jaskier sees his eyes narrow. “How do I make you smaller?

“Just click on the other window and I’ll be gone.”

“I didn’t say gone. Just, small.”

“I’ll still be here, you just won’t see me.”

“Tell me how to make it small.”

“Why? It doesn’t make any difference.”

“Because I… I need to know. For if I use this in the future.” He looks away.

Jaskier also notices that he looks flushed—probably thinking of how terrible a live lecture would be. “I’ll help with that, too, okay? Just, resize the window from the corner. That’s all you have to do.”

Under his breath, Geralt mutters, “I have to turn off full screen.”

“You keep me on full screen?”

Geralt gives a bitter smile. “Otherwise I can’t see you and I feel like an idiot talking to myself.”

“You know, I could use many words to describe you, Geralt. Idiot is not one of them.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t?”

“No. You don’t know where I’m from, where I went to school, anything about my parents.”

“You’re from Rivia, right? And I can’t imagine you having parents.”

“I’m not. And what does that mean?”

“I mean you strike me as being… independent. Individualistic.” He looks at the background of Geralt’s home. “Isolated.”

“You make it sound bad.”

“Is it?”

Geralt purses his lips. Jaskier can hear the tap of his keys. “I’m signing in.”

“Yes, and then it should redirect you through the single sign-on.”

“Mm. What about you?”

“I already have Box.”

“No, the other thing.”

Jaskier lifts his eyebrows. “I, uh, I’m not usually isolated, no. Just recently, of course, like everyone. It’s been harder, I think, because I’m not usually so alone.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

Jaskier suddenly feels ten degrees warmer. He watches his face redden on the screen. He picks up his lute and strums a chord. “Well, I’m from a small… village… Lettenhove.”

“Why do you say it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re lying.”

“Lying? No.”

Geralt tilts his head ever-so-slightly to the side. “You aren’t saying something.”

“How would you know?”

“I just do.”

“I went to school here, at the Academy.”

Geralt’s eyebrows raise. “Hm.”

“And my parents live at the family home at Lettenhove.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t.”

“It’s a very nice school, Jaskier. What did you study?”

“For which degree?”

Geralt smirks. “The last one.”

“Music theory and composition.”

“That’s two different programs.”

Jaskier looks away and plucks a few notes on the lute.

“And you’re working in IT.”

“Yes, well, I am also in a band, you know.”

“I didn’t think you were serious.”

“What do you mean, you didn’t think I was serious?”

“A lot of people claim they’re in bands. They know three chords and how to outline their eyes. It’s just a ploy.”

“A ploy for what?”

“Seduction.”

Jaskier’s throat makes a sound he doesn’t have control of. Geralt’s eyes still. Jaskier hears him click with his trackpad. He uncrosses his legs and leans back. “No, I don’t think most people find the lute an especially sensual instrument.”

“They don’t?”

“No. Now, when I play the guitar, on the other hand…”

Geralt rolls his eyes. He clicks again. “The lute is obscure. It’s artistic. That is far more sensual.”

_Sensual_ , in Geralt’s raspy voice, sends a shiver through Jaskier. He realizes he’s biting his lip again, and he stops. He licks at the chapped skin. He absently plucks a few notes and for a second, Geralt must look directly at his webcam, because it seems he’s looking right back at Jaskier. Jaskier’s eyes flit to his own camera for a second, to the little light next to it, and when he looks back at Geralt, his lips have turned up at the corners into a tiny smile. “Well.”

“Do you sing, too?”

“Yes. As does Priscilla.”

The smile disappears. _He must not remember_.

“She’s the—”

“Your partner.”

“Right.”

“But you live alone?”

“Yes. _Ooh_ , no, not that kind of partner. We sing together.”

“Oh. But you do live alone.”

“Right.”

“You aren’t… lonely now, during this… interminable—”

“Well it’s hardly interminable, Geralt. It’s temporary. It just seems interminable because of the isolation. There’s a thought. Who’s the first person you want to see when it’s over?”

“Ciri,” he answers without hesitation. “My dau—goddaughter.”

“Other than immediate family.”

“Mm.”

“Well?”

“I don’t have anyone… in mind.”

“I understand that. Yesterday I think I reached a point where I was so desperate for human contact I would just, attach myself to the next person who walked through the door.”

“Hm.”

“I know.” Jaskier rubs his forehead with his hand. He watches the curtains rise and fall. He looks back at Geralt and thinks, _He’ll get it._ “You ever feel like that?”

“Like what?”

“Just, hungry, but not for food. It’s like an emptiness, and the only way it could be filled is by stripping away the layers and pressing against someone else, stripped bare as well.”

Geralt closes his eyes. “I don’t think sex will fill the emptiness.”

“No, no that only feeds the hunger—like oxygen and fire. That isn’t what I meant. I mean, not that that wouldn’t be nice as well after…”

“A month?” Geralt offers.

“Hmph. A month if you made love to someone the night before it started. More like…” Jaskier starts to count, and then he realizes what he’s doing. “Oh god, I’m sorry. This is—” He runs his hands over his face. “God. I’m supposed to be working.”

“Isn’t it a little late for that?”

Jaskier isn’t certain if he means the hour or the conversation. He takes a deep breath. “Did you find that form?”

“No.”

“You should have a department folder.”

He walks him through the process.

“Jaskier.”

“Geralt.”

“Why do you do this job?”

“I… I’ve had this job for years. Since I was a student.”

“That’s worse.”

“I just... Well, it’s not difficult, but it’s also not easy. I don’t have to think about it, and I’d rather work to live than live to work. Believe it or not, I am usually quite busy with friends and quiz nights and gigs.”

“I wouldn’t believe otherwise.”

Jaskier chuckles. “Why?” he grins. “Do I look like a social butterfly?”

Geralt’s eyes drift lazily around his screen. He’s smiling again. It’s more pronounced this time. “Yes. And I imagine no one can resist the man with the lute.”

_Is he teasing me?_ Jaskier plays a quick little melody. “Do you feel charmed?” he asks.

Geralt is quiet.

“I…” Jaskier looks at the clock. “I probably…”

“I shouldn’t take up any more of your time, should I?”

Jaskier can see Geralt’s tongue. It runs along his bottom lip. Jaskier realizes his fingers have reached up to the bottom of his screen, and he pulls his hand back. He plays with his necklace instead. “I, um, I shouldn’t take up any more of yours.”

Geralt nods. “Have a good evening, Jaskier.”

“You too, Geralt.”

The call ends, and he thinks, _He didn’t call me Julian this time_. He puts down the lute and feels dizzy. “Well,” he says out loud. "That was... something."

He makes himself some soup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two notes:  
> 1\. Dandelion's background is somewhat spotty, but he's a viscount, probably.  
> 2\. Canon!Geralt can't blush, but this one can because he, presumably, hasn't gone through any mutations. Unless you count writing a dissertation, which...
> 
> Thank you so much for the support so far!!! This has been very therapeutic for me over the past few days, and I hope it's giving you a little fluffy distraction, too. A fluffy distraction that is.. going to... get..... smutty.  
> And I hope it isn't disappointing that this chapter was less humor and, hopefully, a little more tension. It's Act III. That's where it's gotta happen.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fourth time Jaskier and Geralt use Zoom for tech support.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments have been my lifeblood these past few days.  
> I appreciate you, a lot.

~FOUR~

The conference stretches on forever. They piloted the new work ticketing system just before the semester began, but the kinks have yet to be ironed out. Especially for the level one and two techs.

“Is there—does anybody know—is there a way to not have to expand the notes section every time you go back and forth?” The man speaking clearly hasn’t bathed or trimmed his beard in at least a week. Probably longer.

_That may be normal_ , Jaskier thinks. _Thank god this is remote, so I can’t smell him_. They’re using Teams, so Jaskier can only see four people. For some reason, one of them is this guy.

“You mean when you input text?” asks someone else. He has no idea who because, again, it’s Teams, and too many people are trying to get a word in. He can't keep track. It probably doesn’t matter.

“The request is at the top of the page.”

“He means the notes section,” Jaskier says. He realizes he’s muted. He clicks to unmute. “The notes section.”

A different voice drowns him out. “That’s at the top of the page.”

“I don’t mean the request,” the man explains. _He means the notes section._

“The text is fixed at the top of the page.” Someone’s dog barks in the background.

“Do you mean when you resolve the ticket?”

“When you update activity?”

“That should be based on the ticket.”

“You can resize your window.”

“Is there a way to change the default?” asks the man.

“So that it isn’t at the top of the page?”

“Not the ticket request.”

Jaskier’s Zoom lights up, so he clicks over to it.

“The area to input notes.”

It’s Geralt. His stomach does that _thing_ again.

“I think Jaskier is going to have to address this one.”

_Fuck._ He ignores the call and clicks back into Teams. “Yes, right. This is—”

“Jaskier?”

“It says he’s here.”

“Can you hear us?” ten people seem to ask at once.

He clicks unmute again. “Yes! Yes, I was muted,” he explains.

“I think you’re muted,” a woman tells him at the same time.

“Apologies. I’m here. I believe you mean the customer notes field, correct?”

“I’m talking about where the user enters additional information.”

“Yeah, the customer notes field. Unfortunately, there isn’t a way to change the default setting. We’ve spoken to the developer, but they haven’t resolved the issue.”

He gives an update on their communication chain.

He listens to updates about contract renewal budgets.

The CIO wants to request a budget increase, but he’s also afraid he’ll need to furlough hourly employees.

The Zoom window gets swallowed.

It’s Wednesday. Jaskier finally closes out the fifteen windows he’s working in at four. He tries to take a deep breath, and his chest feels tight. He takes two more, and then he reopens Zoom.

It’s been three hours. The circle beside Geralt’s name is grey.

_Don’t be unprofessional. He probably ended up_ actually _calling the help desk. Like he should have done before._

He clicks on his name. _He’s going to think you’re pathetic_. _He’s going to know_.

He hovers the cursor over the video call symbol. He makes a noisy little _pfff_ sound. _Know what? There’s nothing to know_. “It was probably important,” he says. “The students need to learn.” He stretches his neck to one side, then the other. He nods. He blinks a few times. He clicks.

His meeting immediately opens, with a little green message in the corner that says an invitation has been sent. He sees himself on the screen. His shirt is purple. He looks at himself, and then quickly reaches up and undoes another button.

Before he can change his mind, the invitation is accepted.

“Ah, _fuck_. What the—” Geralt is muted, and then unmuted again.

“Um.”

“Fuck.”

Jaskier opens his mouth. He tries to close it, but he finds it impossible.

Geralt is there. He’s _there_. It’s obviously him; Jaskier can see that chin at the top of his screen, and beneath it, as if leaning down, a torso.

He isn’t wearing a shirt. He’s slicked with sweat. His chest, Jaskier sees, is most certainly hairy.

Jaskier makes a sound that is, quite frankly, embarrassing. He masks it with a cough.

The image tilts. He sees Geralt’s brow furrowed into a scowl. It tilts back, and there it is: thick, sculpted. Wet. _Why is he wet?_ Jaskier doesn’t know. He doesn’t need to know. He just knows it should always be exactly like this.

And then Jaskier looks closer and realizes the reason for the fumbling is that Geralt is holding…

“Is that your sword?”

“Yes.” His response is clipped. The computer is on the table again, and Geralt sits down in front of it. _Tragic_. “Sorry.” At least the shoulders are still visible. The pectorals.

Jaskier shakes himself. “For what?”

Geralt looks down at himself. He opens his mouth to answer, and then closes it.

“Oh, no, that’s nothing to worry about, I mean, it’s, um, late afternoon and a lot of people are probably… What exactly are you doing?”

“Meditating.”

Jaskier is quiet. He lifts his hands. “With—uh—okay…”

Geralt’s jaw clenches. “I was also sharpening and polishing my sword.”

Jaskier blinks a few times. _Polishing my sword._ He can see his lips lifting into a snarky little grin, but he can’t help it.

“I am aware that is a euphemism, and that is not what I mean.”

“I didn’t say anything at all.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Hey, I wasn’t going to judge. It’s been a long time inside with just you and your… sword,” he quips. He tries to swallow, but his mouth has gone dry, so he rather gulps.

“Is that how people pass the time?”

"I'm sure. Remember being a teenager, Geralt?"

"Are you speaking from experience here, or..."

Jaskier can’t respond because he’s overwhelmed by the sudden realization that he’s talking to a shirtless Geralt z Rivia about masturbation. An image briefly passes through his mind’s eye: Geralt, stretched back on black satin sheets, palming himself through— His reverie is disturbed by the metallic hiss of Geralt’s sword being sheathed, and then the clack of it being leaned against the table.

“I’m sorry, never mind,” Geralt murmurs.

“No, I’m sorry I interrupted you… meditating. Okay, but why are you sweating?”

“I had been exercising.”

“So were you meditating, polishing your sword, or exercising?”

“I was exercising, and then polishing the sword, and then meditating. I fence.”

“ _With a broadsword?_ ”

“This isn’t a broadsword. It’s more of a longsword.”

“More of a?”

“The specific name would depend on the era and region.”

Jaskier nods. He rubs his palms on his knees. He takes a breath, and it comes out shaky. “I see.” _Still, why would he practice fencing with that?_

“Are you okay?”

“Yes! Yes, I’m good.”

“I apologize, Jaskier. I’m making you uncomfortable.”

“No! No, you aren’t, at all, no. Wha—I—You, um, you called earlier and I was in a meeting, and it just lasted forever.” He can’t stop staring at Geralt’s chest. “What is that?” he asks.

“What?”

He gestures to his chest. “That.”

“It’s a medallion my mentor gave me when I graduated.”

Jaskier grins. “Which degree?”

Geralt also smiles, which tightens something in Jaskier’s chest. “The last one.” He cocks his head to the side. There must a window near him because he’s bathed in a soft, warm light.

Jaskier absently bites at his thumbnail. “So what does it represent? It’s a wolf, right?”

“Mm. It’s about why I, we, do this.”

“This?”

“Teaching history.”

“I... don’t understand the connection.”

“I teach about a lot of bad things that have happened so that they won’t happen again.”

“Oh. So it’s like a predatory thing.”

“Or a protection thing.”

Jaskier nods. _He wants to protect us from repeating the evils of the past_. His chest does the thing again. He watches Geralt turn and frown. “What’s wrong?”

“I hear a plane. You can hear so much more with everyone inside.”

Jaskier listens. _There it is_. He smiles. “I can hear it, too. Funny, how close together we probably are.”

Geralt stares at the screen. “Funny.”

The mental image comes back. It’s oddly specific: black sheets, long silver hair fanned out, and Jaskier’s tongue outlining every ridge of Geralt’s chest. He squirms, shifting himself. He feels his body start to react. He’s pretty sure Geralt’s watching him, and that only makes it worse. He has to reach down and adjust himself.

“It will teach us to appreciate it more,” Geralt says. He licks his lips. “Real contact.”

“At least we can see each other like this.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier watches him for a moment. When his shoulder shifts, he remembers. “Oh, you called earlier.”

“Yes, I need you.”

Jaskier, again, tries to keep his face neutral. “What do you need?” he asks. His voice is breathy; hopefully it doesn’t transfer the tone over the call.

Geralt presses his lips together. “My students. We put the video on the Canvas, remember?”

“Canvas, yes.”

“Mm. It was… received well. They _enjoyed_ it. Much more than anticipated. Yet when I asked them what method they prefer for the next lecture, there was disagreement.”

“Oh?”

“Half of them want to do this, but in a large group.” He grimaces. “And half want another video.”

“Okay, so what do you need?”

“I need to know how to invite them to this meeting, and then I…” he trails off. He huffs.

“What?”

“They… They want another video but… The emails had abundant feedback about your presence.”

“Wait, you did this by email?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you do a discussion board or a form or something?”

Geralt makes an irritated face. “Well over half the students spoke positively in favor of your contributions. And they asked me to invite you to the next lecture as well.”

“I thought half the students wanted to do a Zoom class.”

“A quarter of the students wanted to do the group meeting, but they also wanted you to attend.” He shrugs. “Not all of them are particularly bright.”

“You’re right. Only three quarters of them are particularly bright.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “I understand if you… don’t want to. It’s… a lot to ask.”

“Do you want me to?”

“The students would like it.”

Jaskier leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “That isn’t what I asked.”

“I… don’t want to put you in an uncomfortable position.”

“What’s the lecture? It’s the same class?”

Geralt nods. “Special topic. The historical parallels and impacts of income inequality amid global health crises.”

“Well that sounds like fun.”

“You don’t want to.”

“That isn’t what I said at all.”

“You were being facetious.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear it.” He looks around. “But I may need to get more comfortable. And I need some food.”

“Dinner?”

“I didn’t eat lunch.”

“Why?”

“I was busy.”

“You didn’t eat before we started talking?”

“Uh.” Jaskier licks his lips. “I didn’t. I saw you called and I…” He scratches his head.

“You should get food and I will clean up.”

“Oh.”

“Or do you not want to do it now?”

“No, no now is good.”

“I can’t be seen like this.”

“Well I see you.”

“You don’t count.”

“I don’t count?” Jaskier grins. “Thanks.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“You’re being difficult.”

Jaskier pouts. “Well, I suppose if you absolutely insist on putting clothes on, I can deal with that hardship. But I think you’d find the increase in student engagement truly stunning.”

“Hm. Doubtful.”

“Yeah, you’re right. They’d be too distracted.”

Geralt shakes his head. “Get food. I need to rinse off, and I’ll be right back.”

Jaskier gets another glimpse of him as he stands up and walks away, leaving the computer on the table. Jaskier does as he’s told: he makes himself a sandwich and pulls off a bunch of grapes. He sits back down and leans forward, trying to make out anything he can in Geralt’s living room.

He can’t see anything. The man is pure enigma.

Fascinating enigma.

Really, really fucking hot enigma. Currently in the shower. _Stop objectifying him_ , he tells himself. He looks at himself. He has mustard on his lip, so he licks that off. He adjusts his hair. _Why am I doing this? It’s not like he’s looking_. Then again, how could he even know?

He realizes he’s talked more to Geralt in the past week than he has any of his actual friends. He thinks about how eventually, this will end. And even before that, Geralt will learn what he needs to cope with this; he won’t need Jaskier anymore. It makes him feel queasy. “I don’t want to stop,” he whispers.

Geralt returns. Jaskier watches him enter the frame: dark denim and a tight black Henley. Jaskier _does not_ sigh out loud. “I thought you were going to get more comfortable.”

Jaskier nods. He unplugs his laptop and carries it over to the sofa. He takes his grapes. “You’re wearing a different shirt.”

“I told you I own more than one shirt. Not as many as you, I imagine.”

“Why do you say that?”

Geralt just lifts an eyebrow.

“Well, some of us require a little more ornamentation than you.”

“What?”

“You have that whole… I can sit here and brood and look—” he bites his lip. “I require a little bit more decoration.”

“No you don’t.”

Jaskier nearly chokes on his grape.

“This is the first time doing this lecture. It isn’t standard curriculum.” He gives a hard look at the screen, and then he seems to be looking straight at Jaskier, with a frown. He looks back at the screen. “I wish... Hmm.”

“What?”

“It is still hard to read you when I can’t look into your eyes.”

Jaskier looks at his webcam. “Does this make it easier for you?”

“Yes.” Geralt’s voice is low, close to a growl.

Jaskier makes himself keep looking at the camera. “But then I can’t see you or read your expressions.” He leans forward. “How am I going to learn anything like that?”

“You think you’ll learn something?” Geralt’s quiet chuckle is throaty; it makes Jaskier shiver. He can’t help it. He looks down. Geralt’s eyes are bright and his lips are curled into a soft smile. Jaskier looks back at the camera. “I saw that. You looked down.”

“I have to! It’s too hard to not look at you.” He looks down again. “I give up.”

“Okay, I’m going to do the panopticon thing again.”

“Let’s just record it in here instead.”

“I can do that?”

It’s long past six when Geralt finishes and posts the video. “Well I’m thoroughly depressed,” says Jaskier. “And hungry again.”

“Mm. Why?”

“Because I only had a sandwich and some grapes.”

“Why are you depressed?”

“History repeating itself.”

“It isn’t repeating itself. It’s a… a variation on a theme.”

“Why are the themes always bad, Geralt?”

“They aren’t. We just aren’t very good at recognizing anything else.”

“Mm. Oh,” Jaskier laughs, “now I sound like you. Hmm.”

“Mm.”

“There it is. So can you, then?”

“Can I what?”

“Recognize anything else. You’re a wolf, right?”

“A wolf only spends a third of its time hunting.”

“And you?”

“I’m getting better.”

“And better at online teaching.” Jaskier ignores the twinge of regret in his gut.

“Mm. I am hungry, too.”

“For evil or actual food?”

“Food.”

“Oh, I’ve kept you on here for hours, haven’t I?”

“No. I kept you.”

“But you have what you need uploaded now.”

“Yes.”

“You look like you want to say something.”

“No.”

“I miss eating with people.”

“You ate grapes with me.”

“But you weren’t eating. Next time you’ll have to eat, too.”

Geralt nods. “I can do that.” He adjusts his shirt sleeves.

_Even his forearms…_ “Okay, well, I guess, just… Have a good night, Geralt.”

“Good night. Oh—”

“Yes?”

“I, uh, I wanted to also say… thank you, Julian, _er_ , Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s entire body seizes up. “Julian is fine, too.”

Geralt nods. “Good. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Geralt leaves the meeting and Jaskier is left with his own face, staring blankly at the computer screen. He watches himself reach forward and end the meeting.

Later, lying in bed, he realizes they could have eaten together. He rolls over and buries his face in a pillow. Far overhead, he can hear a plane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coincidentally, my computer is being rebuilt today after I post this, so there may be a slightly larger gap in between the fourth and fifth times. Fortunately, I have live-in tech support, so we're moving as quick as we can. 
> 
> I hope that you are safe and well, friends.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fifth time Jaskier and Geralt use Zoom for tech support.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully, here's another little bit of warmth and fuzz in this difficult time.  
> Truly, I'm sending all my love to you with this.

~FIVE~

Jaskier’s legs twitch and ache. He feels like he could slink out of his skin like a snake. It’s Friday. The afternoon sun has streamed through the windows until the flat is overly warm. Jaskier closes his email and rubs his face. He leans back and undoes another button on his shirt. He stretches. He gets up and walks to the kitchen window, opens it, and looks out at the street. Birds are singing. The breeze is a balm.

Jaskier holds his arms away from his body. He closes his eyes and soaks in the sunlight and the little bit of air he can get. He undoes the remaining buttons and lets his skin absorb the light. Outside, spring is alive, and he wants to stretch a blanket out in the park, or else cast himself down directly on the grass and reach his arms and legs out as far as they’ll go. He rolls his shoulders and arches his back. When he opens his mouth to sigh, his throat lets out a low sound. He rolls his neck. Life continues around the city, and humanity can only watch and yearn.

He pours himself a glass of wine. It’s a bad coping mechanism, but it’s Friday, the work week is finished, and it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. He pushes down the bubble of anxiety that threatens to surface. He takes a sip and looks back out. The street is empty. The city is quiet, save for the birds and the happy buzz of some insect already awake for the season.

His laptop sits on the table. He can’t stop looking at it. _Calm down_. It has been two days. He hasn’t heard a word. _Same amount of time as before._ He considers the ethics of creating some sort of problem that would force Geralt to ask for help. He takes another sip. _Maybe I should take some classes_ , he thinks. History is fascinating. Why not work on another degree? It would inspire some great ballads. Priscilla says he already writes too many ballads. _I bet Geralt likes ballads_.

He takes another sip.

“Spaghetti,” he says aloud. He fills a pot with water and switches on the stove. “I should get a cat.” _I wonder if Geralt likes cats_. “Doesn’t matter,” he tells himself. “Maybe don’t talk to yourself so much you fucking madman.” He gets out the pasta. “ _You fuuucking mad-man_ ,” he sings. “Oh I’m really starting to lose it.”

And like that, his computer starts to play the jingle again.

It’s a Pavlovian response: he smiles. His shoulders relax. _This should worry you_. It’s a lot of happiness to rest on someone else’s shoulders. He grabs the computer and accepts the call as he places it on the kitchen counter. “Geralt.” He smiles. “Hello.”

He’s there. It’s kind of like he’s there in the kitchen with him, like this. The sunlight streams in behind the computer, and Geralt’s face is there on the screen, intense stare and just-parted lips. Jaskier can see his teeth. He’s wearing a white t-shirt. Jaskier takes another drink so he doesn’t say anything he’ll regret later. Then he realizes he’s drinking and it’s a work call. He sets the glass down.

“Hello Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice isn’t fair. It _does things_ to Jaskier. He eyes the glass, thinking, _I haven’t had enough to already be having these thoughts_.

“I’m afraid you caught me off my guard. I’m cooking dinner and engaged in all manner of illicit behavior, like an after-work drink.”

“Hm.”

“I’d offer you a glass, Geralt. There’s plenty.”

“I would accept.”

Jaskier pulls back and stares at the screen. “Would you?” He sounds breathless.

“Mm.”

Jaskier leans in to see his expression. Then he catches a glimpse of himself. “Oh, oh god! Geralt! I’m so sorry.” He grasps the edges of his shirt. His hands are frantic; he can barely slide a button through a hole.

“No, don’t.”

“Huh?”

“It’s—I disturbed—it’s after work hours. Don’t let me—you were already… You look relaxed and… No worry. Besides, it’s only fair, right?”

Jaskier blinks and tries to think of the correct response.

“After Wednesday, that is… I’ll pour myself a glass of something, too.” If it is possible to aggressively avoid eye contact, that is what Geralt does.

“Okay.” Jaskier realizes his voice is a little shaky and small. He clears his throat. Geralt is carrying his MacBook from the office, through his living room, and into the kitchen. “You have a nice place.”

“Thanks.” He sets the computer down on the counter, also, and pulls down a glass and a bottle. As he pours it, he looks back at the screen. “What are you making?”

“Just spaghetti. I haven’t decided yet if I’m making the sauce or if I’ll use a jar.”

“Do you make your own?”

“Sometimes.” Jaskier grins. “It’s one of the things I _can_ make.”

“Hm.” Geralt disappears from the screen for a moment. When he reappears, he has a stockpot.

“What’s this?”

“Spaghetti is a good idea.”

Jaskier bites his lip to keep from smiling too wide. He nods. He gets out tomatoes and garlic and onion. “And will you be making the sauce, professor?”

Geralt’s smile makes something in Jaskier’s chest twinge. He takes a cutting board out of a cabinet, and pulls out a large knife. “Sure.”

It is the most attractive thing Jaskier has ever seen. He turns off the stove, as it’s too early to boil water if he’s making his own sauce. “I don’t know about you, but my sauce takes ages.”

“An hour.”

“The longer the better.”

“Mm.”

“How was the rest of your week?”

“Slow.”

“I know what you mean. Today I think I stared out the window for, collectively, about four hours.”

“Mm.” Geralt chops an onion.

Jaskier crushes garlic. He puts butter and olive oil in a pan. “What about you?”

“Probably three.”

Jaskier puts the plate down on the table and moves his laptop over and plugs it in. On the screen, Geralt has also sat down in front of a plate. He picks up a fork, and Jaskier’s heart swells. “It’s uh, it’s, this is nice. I mean, I was about to go stir crazy when—oh god. Geralt. What did you need?” He presses a hand against his chest. His pulse seems to double. He remembers his shirt is unbuttoned. He feels his nipples tighten.

Geralt stills, watching him. “When we spoke on Wednesday, I asked for help.”

“Yes, anything.”

“But you didn’t show me how to schedule a class.”

After a moment, Jaskier says, “Oohhh. That’s right. You needed to schedule a Zoom meeting.” He frowns. “But you’ve done this now, uh, a few times. You didn’t see the meeting scheduler?”

Geralt’s eyes narrow.

“No, no, of course. I’m happy to help, of course.” He sets down his fork. “Um, do you want to do that now?”

“No.”

Jaskier looks down to cover his grin. “Okay.” He picks the fork back up and fills it with pasta. “You never told me where you’re from.”

“I didn’t.”

“Are you going to?”

Geralt takes a bite, chews, and swallows before he answers. “Eventually.”

“Are you bad enough with computers that you’re going to keep talking to me that long?”

Geralt’s fork slips in his hand. Specks of sauce spatter across his shirt. He looks down, frowns, and then looks up at the computer. His pout nearly kills Jaskier. “I’m not bad with computers.”

Jaskier smiles and he feels so good it hurts. He finds himself placing a hand beside the computer. “Okay, if you say so.”

“I’m not. I just haven’t done this before and have to learn.”

“I know, I know. I just like riling you up. You get so sexy when you’re annoyed.” He immediately realizes what he has said, and several thoughts immediately run through his mind. First, he wonders if he can pretend he _didn’t_ just call Geralt sexy. Second, he wonders if there’s a chance the internet cut out. Maybe if there was a lag, he wouldn’t have heard it. Surely everyone in the building is on Netflix right now, so there’s a chance of that. Third, a part of him wonders if he slams his computer shut and never opens it again, if everyone can forget he exists. Fourth, he can’t actually express in words. Instead, it’s a stirring in his arteries and veins that surges toward an unknown terror that scares and excites him on a level he can’t examine too closely right now.

Without saying anything, Geralt turns on his screen share. “Is this where I click?” _So we are doing this now, then._

“Yes, there on the plus sign. Yeah, click on Schedule Meeting.” He watches Geralt type the class name in and enter it for next Monday, mid-morning.

“What’s this?”

“Do you want it to be a unique link for the meeting or your regular meeting link?”

“Hm.” Geralt clicks over on the personal meeting option. It flashes on the screen, and then he hastily clicks back.

“Wait, wait. Go back. What did that say?”

“Nothing.”

“No, wait. Geralt, was that—”

“Mm.”

“Please?”

Geralt huffs and clicks back over. “What?”

“Is your… you made your meeting password 'buttercup'?”

“I…” he looks at the screen. Jaskier knows he can see his face in the corner. He leans close; they both lean close.

“Geralt.”

“Hm.”

“You had to change that in the settings.”

“Mm.”

“You also had to select the option to let me see your Zoom windows during a screen share.”

Geralt’s eyes widen. Jaskier can see his throat flex as he swallows.

“In fact, that’s in the advanced settings.” Jaskier’s heart races.

“Hmm.” Geralt takes another drink.

“Geralt?”

Geralt doesn’t say anything. Jaskier sees him watching the screen.

Jaskier wets his lips. “You don’t have to, um, if you want to talk to me, I’d… I like talking to you. I feel like you’ve been closer to me over the past two weeks than my friends.”

“Your friends.”

“Yeah.”

They stare at each other. A minute passes. It feels like much longer. “Mm,” Geralt says, finally.

“Mm? That’s it?”

“What should I say?”

“I don’t know—maybe, Jaskier, I like talking to you, too. Jaskier, I want to talk to you for more than tech support because it isn’t actually your job anyway and you aren’t an instructional technologist either but I like your… shirts…”

“You think I talk to you because I like your shirts?”

“I don’t know why you talk to me! I just know that I want to talk to you and I want you to want to talk to me and I want you to like my shirts because I like your… face!”

Geralt opens his mouth, then closes it. He squints. He opens his mouth again. “This would be easier,” he mutters, “if you were here.”

“Why?”

“I can’t—this isn’t real. It’s a computer.”

“You can see me, right? You can hear me. What isn’t real?”

“I can’t feel you. I can’t touch you.”

“Do you want to touch me, Geralt?” Jaskier sees himself on the screen. He’s out of breath. The sun is setting, and the kitchen light makes him look pale, with bright eyes and pink lips. He bites down.

Geralt closes his eyes. “Yes,” he whispers. “I want to touch you.”

“How do you want to touch me, Geralt?”

His eyes open, and they are amber and gold in his own kitchen light. “I want to take that ridiculous shirt and tear it in half.”

A tremor runs through Jaskier’s nervous system, tingling his skin and warming him. His breath hitches, so he steadies himself. “And then what?”

“Then _what?_ ”

“Then what would you do to me?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls. It’s a warning, and Jaskier relishes it. His hands shake, and he reaches up and pulls his shirt free from his shoulders. He lets it slide off his arms and casts it aside.

“Then what would you do to me?” Jaskier repeats.

Geralt groans. “Then what would _you_ do?”

“Me? Before or after I got you out of your clothes?”

Geralt is out of breath, and it’s the most glorious thing Jaskier has ever seen. “How?”

“Slowly. Inch by inch, Geralt. I’d slide that shirt over your head—it’s dirty anyway, and it’s going to stain, you know.”

“Mm.”

“And then I’m going to push you back on that chair I see across the room. The wide one, and I’m going to climb onto your lap, astride.”

Geralt leans back. His hands disappear.

“What are you doing, Geralt?”

Geralt glares at him again. “You…” He huffs. “I just needed help with my computer.”

“Well, here we are.”

Geralt licks his lips.

Jaskier groans, “Geralt, you can’t do that. It’s cruel.”

“But you can keep biting yours until they’re red and—” He makes a face. “I want to _see_ you.”

“You can see me right now.”

“ _No_ , I want to feel you.”

“And I want to feel you. I’m going—if you let me—I’m going to, Geralt. As soon as they say. I need it.”

“What do you need?”

“You. You and your stupid history lessons and your hair and your goddamn chest. And then…”

“ _Fuck_. And then what?”

Jaskier stands up. He takes a half-step back so he’s fully in the camera frame. He palms himself through his jeans. The outline is obvious; Geralt can see just how bad he wants it. “And then I’m going to let you do anything you want to me.”

Geralt’s chest heaves. His lips are parted, and Jaskier wants nothing more than to lean forward and take them with his own. He’s _right there_ ; it’s painful. “This is… this is madness.”

“I know. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

“Longer.”

Jaskier nods. “Yeah. Longer.”

“This is just the isolation.”

The thought hurts. “Is it?”

“It isn’t… I haven’t felt like this.”

“Like what?”

“Unbalanced. Decentered. Unsure of anything.”

“Ever?”

“In a long time.”

“Is that bad?”

“It’s uncomfortable.”

Jaskier nods. “Okay.” He tries to ignore the sinking feeling as he sits back down.

“Wait.”

“What?”

“Can you, just… turn around, for a moment?”

Jaskier stands again, turns, and looks back over his shoulder. Geralt lets out a low groan. Before he can continue, Jaskier turns back to him. “Look, I know this is probably insane. And maybe it’s just… circumstances. I don’t know. I doubt it because, well, I think you’re fucking fascinating. But look. I’m going to send you my personal Zoom account. It isn’t work affiliated. And I think that if you want to talk to me again, you should probably use that one. And I think you should log out of yours first, too. Make a new account—and _no_ , don’t you dare pretend you don’t know how because you aren’t fooling me, Geralt. But you should know that the next time you talk to me on here, if I can see you, I’m not letting you go until I’ve told you about everything I’m going to do with my tongue when we finally see each other, and you’re going to tell me exactly what you’re going to do to my body.” He catches his breath. “Got it?”

Geralt nods.

“Good. And if you decide not, well…” He doesn’t want to consider that, but judging by Geralt’s face, it seems unlikely. “Then you’re always welcome to email or enter a help request. But otherwise…” Jaskier deliberately licks his lips now. “I’ll see you later.”

He ends the meeting, sends his personal contact info in the text chat, and logs out. Then he opens his personal laptop and signs in.

He finishes his spaghetti and tries to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh my!  
> What's going to happen next?!?
> 
> Also, I don't usually write stories like 5+1 because they're so confined to a set structure; I hope these 5 worked for you... Now we have our +1 to come... Heh.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And one time Geralt and Jaskier did not use Zoom for tech support.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thank you, you all are awesome.
> 
> Second, this chapter is perfectly safe for a home work environment. It is NOT safe for a traditional work environment.  
> In other words, this chapter is filthy. Read at your own risk (and enjoyment).

~PLUS ONE~

Jaskier turns on Spotify while he cleans up from dinner. The air from the window is chilly, now, and he lets himself feel uncomfortably cool before he closes it. He drinks a glass of water before pouring another glass of wine.

It’s Friday night.

On a normal Friday, he’d be finishing up dinner at a friend’s house now, or starting the first set at a gig. He hums something new, unfocused and sultry, under his breath.

An hour passes.

He writes a few words in his journal, with a quick little rhythm and possible chord progression. It’s nothing revolutionary, but he also scribbles down a few notes that may make a melody befitting this feeling of uncertainty and lust, possibility and the fear of disappointment. It’s unusual. Something about monsters and shadows and hoping his heart won’t be pulled apart chamber by chamber, atrium by ventricle, _whatever_. It isn’t fully formed yet, but he knows it’s going to be frustrated and urgent and wild.

If this was a normal Friday, he’s toss on his own white t-shirt and boots and march downstairs to the street. He’d run there. He could look up Geralt’s address easily, he just doesn’t want to be weird, but he could. And he could run, and he’d be sweaty, too, and he’d pound on the door with a fist and he’d demand Geralt open it, and when he did… _Oh, when he did_. He’d get a fistful of that hair and he’d—

His Zoom jingles.

Jaskier feels like he’s having a heart attack. His chest hurts and his stomach lurches, and he isn’t certain it’s Geralt—it could be Priscilla or Dudu, or even one of his cousins—and he almost doesn’t want to look.

He takes the call.

“Geralt,” he sighs.

“Jaskier.”

“I wasn’t sure…”

“Wasn’t sure about what?”

“If you’d actually want to talk to me.”

Geralt makes a face. “Don’t be an idiot.”

Jaskier makes a face back. “ _You_ don’t be an idiot.”

Geralt just lifts an eyebrow, and that solitary act brings Jaskier’s body back to awareness. He picks up his computer and picks his shirt up from where the left it earlier in the night. “Now what?” Geralt asks.

“Now I want you to show me the rest of your flat. It is a flat, right?”

“Loft.”

“That’s how you have room to sword fight.”

“Fence.”

“Sure.”

“You want to see that?”

“No.”

“You just said you did.”

“I didn’t mean that.”

Geralt narrows his eyes. “Julian.”

Jaskier can’t control the sound he makes. It’s something like a groan and a curse. “God, call me that again and I’m going to come over there after all, I don’t care what they do to me.”

“You like it when I call you by your name?”

Jaskier just whimpers.

“Julian. I asked you a question.”

He almost drops the computer. “Oh god. Yes.”

“And you like that, too.”

“Geralt, please show me your bed. I need to know if it’s what I imagined.”

“What did you imagine?”

“To be honest, I was more interested in _you_ in the fantasy, but satin and mahogany was involved.”

“You think I would buy satin sheets?”

“Hmm. You’re right. I think _I_ would buy _you_ satin sheets. In fact, I’m going to have them delivered.”

“Nothing nonessential right now.”

“I know, you’ll get them in a month or two, and by then, you’re going to need new sheets because I’m going to—well. You’ll need new.”

“No, no go back. What are you going to do?”

“Is that your bed?”

“Of course this is my bed. What other bed would I show you? Ciri’s?”

“Good point.” The sheets are grey, as it turns out, and a serviceable cotton. That’s probably good because Jaskier plans to make Geralt sweat. “This is mine,” he says. He points the computer around the room, and then places it on his bed. And then he stretches out in front of it like he’s having his portrait painted.

Geralt groans. “Well,” he growls, “you said you were going to tell me—”

“Patience, Geralt. Come. Sit with me. Yeah, like that. That’s perfect. _Ahh fuck_.” He’s still wearing the white t-shirt (with the adorable specks of spaghetti sauce), and it’s stretched across his biceps and his chest. Jaskier takes a moment to just appreciate the view.

Geralt takes a seat in an armchair by his bed with the laptop on the edge of the mattress. The effect is a view looking up from just below the waist. “What’s that painting?” he asks, and _Really?_ Jaskier thinks. _Is this the time to talk about art?_

“This?” He tilts the camera up.

“Mm.”

“Just something a friend did. Why?”

“I want to get the full picture. You need to do laundry.”

“Are we really having this conversation right now?”

“What’s the point of having seventy-five blue shirts if none of them are clean?” He snorts. “That’s probably why you have so many, isn’t it?”

In response, Jaskier unbuttons his jeans. “I don’t think I need to dignify that with a response.”

“Those jeans aren’t going to…” He trails off as Jaskier wiggles and slides them free from his hips.

“What was that?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt leans forward, breathing through his mouth. Jaskier tosses his jeans across the room to the laundry basket. He feels an irrational sense of victory, despite being the one in his boxer briefs.

“That painting is a forest near my family home.”

“Lettenhove.”

“Mm hmm. There’s a place there, in the forest, where the earth is split… oh, like a child’s idea of an earthquake, and rocks jut out, red and sand-white and brown. A ravine is cut through the middle, and we called it the edge of the world.” Geralt watches him with that small, fond smile again, and Jaskier feels warm to his core. “And we would play there until it was too dark to see.”

“Something tells me you weren’t stopped by mere darkness.”

Jaskier laughs. “How do you already know me so well?”

“I think if someone told you to not go to the edge of the world, it would be the first place you’d set off to see.”

“With my journal and my lute.”

“I think you may have been born in the wrong time.”

“Says the man who carries a sword and fights monsters.”

“It’s not monsters. It’s the ideologies of evil. And I use facts, not violence. I never pretended to be anything but abnormal.”

“I don’t think you’re abnormal.”

“Then what am I?”

“Romantic.”

Geralt sniffs out a laugh. “Right.”

“What, you disagree?”

“I’m not romantic. You’re the musician. And poet, it seems.”

Jaskier leans back. “I’ll take that. I just think you’re probably a poet, too, of a different sort.”

“Why is that?”

“You forget, I’ve seen you do your job. I’ve _heard_ you.”

Geralt scoffs. “That’s completely different.”

“You take complex, difficult, loaded concepts and distill them down to concise statements about right and wrong—ideologies of evil. Actionable statements, in fact. What is that, if not poetry?”

“It isn’t as simple as right and wrong.”

Jaskier smiles. “Exactly.”

Geralt shakes his head. “If I was a poet, I’d be better at talking to you.”

“I think you’re brilliant at talking to me. You don’t?”

“Pfft. Why do you think that?”

“Well you’ve talked me out of my clothes. That should count for something.”

“You talked yourself out of your clothes.”

“Hmm. Maybe I should put them ba—”

“No. I didn’t say that.”

Jaskier leans close to the computer. “See?”

“So bossing you around is poetic now?”

“Is that what we were talking about?”

Geralt leans back and rolls his eyes. “The hell if I know.”

Jaskier lets himself relax again. The light around Geralt is warm, and it highlights his skin and leaves shadows along his edges. “I like you like this,” says Jaskier.

“Like what?”

“Relaxed. Candid.”

“Is that what I am?”

They both smile. Jaskier wets his lips. “It’s the t-shirt. Clothes do a lot, you see?”

“Now how did I know we would circle back to this?”

“They do, though. Imagine if you’d called me this evening in a suit—oo, actually, yes, do that sometime.” He takes a moment to picture Geralt in a full three-piece.

Geralt smirks, and it brings back that tension in Jaskier’s stomach. He takes a long, deep breath and lets it out slowly.

“Anyway, instead you called in jeans and a white t-shirt, like something from a… I don’t even know. But it set a different tone.”

“You talk too much, Jaskier.”

That makes him twitch, too. “Do I? Whatever should I be doing instead?”

“You’re the one lying there nearly naked.”

“Well if you were here, you could shut me up.”

“I would.” Geralt’s voice changes. It’s a subtle shift, a lowering of pitch, but Jaskier hears it. He notices.

“Really? That’s interesting.” He lets a hand trail across his chest. It’s over the top; he’s acting like some ridiculous coquette, or a thirsty cam-boy. But he sees Geralt’s jaw clench. He sees the intake of breath, the shift in his seat. Jaskier lets himself go. “How would you go about doing that?”

“You’re already on the bed, so I think it’s redundant to say I’d push you onto it. But we would’ve done that first.”

“Oh god, yes.” Jaskier closes his eyes for a second, and then stares back at the screen, eager to take in Geralt’s gaze. He wants to soak it up like the sunlight. “I would let you.” _This is happening_.

“No you wouldn’t. _You’d_ probably try to shove _me_.”

“Maybe.” Jaskier grins. “I guess you’d just have to push harder.”

Geralt slides forward in his chair. “I think there are probably simpler ways of getting you to do what I want.”

“Oh? Like what?”

Geralt takes his shirt off.

Jaskier tries to let out his breath, but it comes out as a rasp and a moan. “ _Fuck_ me.”

Geralt lifts his eyebrows in a smug little gesture. “What was that?”

“You… you just… Geralt. Really.”

“Then what?” _There it is again—the voice_. He’s holding himself back, but he’s willing to let himself go; it’s the sound of anticipation.

“Then what?” Jaskier echoes. “With your shirt off, if you were here?”

“Mm.”

“Then I’d do what I want to do right now. You can manhandle me all you want,” he says through a smile, “but I will do things with my mouth that will make you beg.”

At that, it’s Geralt’s turn to suck in a long breath. Jaskier looks closely and yes, he can see that Geralt is hard. _For this_ , he thinks. _For me_. His body is on fire. “Like what?”

“I’m going to start with my mouth on your chest because it’s begging for it. I want to taste your skin. I want to see if it’s as good as it looks, if it tastes of heat. I want to taste your sweat.” He watches Geralt fidget, as if he’s restless. His body is flushed. “I’m going to leave marks.”

Jaskier continues, “And then I’m going to undo your jeans and suck on your skin just above the zipper while I touch you through the denim.”

Geralt groans. His hand moves. He pushes down on himself.

“That’s right, Geralt,” he whispers, “touch yourself for me.”

He opens his mouth to groan as he does. “ _Julian_.”

“Yeah. And when you’re hard for me—”

“I have been.”

“When you’re as hard as I want, I’m going to tug down on those jeans…” He watches, breath held, as the jeans come down. “Oh _god_ yes. Look at you.”

Geralt shoves the jeans away. He sits in his chair like it’s a throne, and Jaskier is his supplicant. “Maybe I’d rather look at you.”

“Me?”

Geralt chuckles. “Yeah, you.” He tilts his head to the side and watches the screen intently. “You’re hard too.”

Jaskier nods his head. “Very.”

“Touch yourself.” It’s a command.

Jaskier nods again, faster. “Okay.” He tugs himself through his boxers.

“Does that feel good?”

Jaskier shakes. “Yes.”

“I’m going to make you feel better.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. Take them off.”

“Mm hmm.” He slides them off and casts them aside. He can see himself on the screen now, in the shadowy half-light of his bedroom, laid out like a feast. He’s iron-hard and his body writhes the more Geralt stares at him. “Like that?” he whispers, shuddering.

“Yes. Perfect.” Geralt’s voice is a low growl, and it sends sparks along Jaskier’s skin.

“Now what?”

Geralt huffs. “You’re the one who knows what he’s doing, not me.” He leans forward. “But I do know that I’m going to taste you, too.”

Jaskier moans and strokes himself, slow.

“I can see it in the light—you’re already leaking, aren’t you? You want it bad.”

Jaskier has lost words. He squeezes himself.

“Easy. I’m going to make you take it slow.”

“Take what, Geralt?”

“You said you have an eager mouth, but you don’t know about mine.”

“Is that so?”

“Mm.”

Jaskier tells him, “I’m going to get messy, Geralt. I’m going to take you deep. Why aren’t you touching yourself?”

“I’m watching.”

“I want to watch, too.”

Geralt smiles and nods, and then he tugs down his boxers. Jaskier stops and stares. He swallows. “What?” Geralt asks.

“Wow.”

Geralt strokes himself. “Yeah?”

“Oh yeah. Christ that’s… _Fuck_ Geralt. You don’t even…” He starts again. “I want it so bad. Fuck I want you so bad.”

“Yes. Tell me what you want.”

“You. Your cock.” It sounds filthy. Gooseflesh rises on his skin as his body tenses and tightens. He trembles.

Geralt pauses for a moment, holding himself together. Then he spits in his hand and asks, “Where are we in this scenario?”

Jaskier pulls himself together. “I think I’m sucking your cock.”

Geralt bites his lip. “Yeah, that. I think I can make you feel better than that, as good as your mouth looks.”

“Yes, please.”

“I need to touch you, Jaskier. I have to.” His voice is soft and desperate. “I’ve been staring at you over and over and my hands need to feel something real.”

Jaskier watches Geralt’s hands. He sees what they’re capable of. He moans as his own hand quickens.

“Stop.”

Jaskier freezes. “What?”

“Turn yourself… Please… I want to see…” He licks his lips.

 _Oh, he does want it_ , Jaskier thinks. He turns his body so the camera is directed up from beneath, and he lifts himself, just so, and hears Geralt let out a low, throaty groan. “Yeah,” Jaskier whispers. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“Just…” Geralt grips himself tight, barely moving, as Jaskier reaches into his nightstand and pulls out a bottle. “ _God_. Yes.”

Jaskier drizzles a little onto his fingers and slicks it onto his cock. And then he lets his hand explore, lazily, downward. The closer he gets, the more labored he hears Geralt’s breathing. “Is this what you want to see?”

“ _Fuck_.”

Jaskier watches him stroke slowly, unblinking, as he stares. He lets a finger graze over himself and hears a sharp intake of breath. “Like that?”

“Yes, like that.”

“Is this what you want?”

“Now, Julian,” Geralt growls. “I want you now.”

Jaskier gives him what he wants.

His legs shake as he lifts himself and lowers back. “Perfect,” Geralt whispers. “Just like that, yes.” Jaskier whimpers when he sees him subtly pinch at his nipple; he files that away for later. “You like that, don’t you?” Geralt asks.

“I’d like it—ah _, yes_ —better if— _ahh_ —if it was you.”

“You’d take it, wouldn’t you? _You’re so perfect, fuck._ ”

“I want you, _mmf_ , to give me everything—”

Geralt’s fist is quick. The noises, slick wet and breathy moans, are delicious. Jaskier would feel shameful, but Geralt’s eyes caress him with wonder. He reaches as deep as he can, stroking himself. The whispers and groans drive him forward, but he’s held back.

Then Geralt says, desperate, “I want to kiss you.”

And it’s that thought, actually, that takes Jaskier to the edge faster than he intended. And it’s that thought that leaves him just on a border between sated and unsatisfied, until he pushes himself up and stares into his webcam and says, “Yes. I am going to kiss you, Geralt.”

And he watches Geralt come apart for him, so he follows him, murmuring, “Yes.” _Anywhere_ , he thinks _. Anywhere you’ll have me._

He sleeps all night, and into the morning.

Over lunch, he places an order for black satin sheets.

They’ll get there eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are going to get through this.  
> I love you all, for real.
> 
> Thank you for taking this little escapist journey with me, where everyone can stay home safe and fall in love. There's a lot more I'd kind of like to say about it, but I don't know that I can do it sufficiently.  
> So, I'll just repeat: I love you all. I'm glad we have these communities. I'm grateful for each of you taking your time to read my therapy (porn).
> 
> If you like this story, you may like my other stories, especially The Fortnight, which is a quarantine fic. Click my profile for that.  
> And I'm not very good at Tumblr, but I'm there @agentlewomanandascholar and I'd love it if you said hello!


	7. The Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier's first date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been challenging to find the right mindset for an epilogue to this story, but I think I found it from Geralt's perspective.
> 
> This is set later--I'm not sure how much later, yet, but we'd think of it here as Phase 3 or after.
> 
> I want to edit this more, but it's storming pretty bad here, and I may lose power or interwebs, so I'll just have to edit more later. I've written this damn chapter like five times at this point. Couldn't decide on anything.

Jaskier is wearing the same shirt he wore the day they met. Geralt stops, when he realizes it, and stares at him for a minute. It triggers that squeeze, the tightening in his chest, that Geralt is beginning to associate with Jaskier. It happens more frequently than he cares to admit. It makes him nervous.

 _It shouldn’t_. There’s no reason to be _nervous_ about it, or uncomfortable. It is what it is: they’ve met each other under the strangest set of circumstances imaginable, and something has clicked. _He’s fascinating_. He really is.

Sometimes, Geralt thinks he has imagined all of this—hallucinated it. He thinks that if someone had asked him to draw up a character for a play, someone he would like to meet or be, he would have created Jaskier. _He should be smart, and good looking, and brave,_ Geralt would say. _He should be a light amid darkness, finding joy in hardship. He should do the right thing_. It’s _romantic_ , and _overwrought_ , and Jaskier would be able to put it in subtler, less asinine verbiage, but he can’t.

Geralt would prefer to not know how Jaskier handles crises, but here they are: months into a global disaster, on the end of it, now, fucking finally, he can see they’ve done everything they know to do. It reveals a lot about a person, seeing how they handle hard times. Jaskier has complained, of course, like everyone, but the complaints are always brought from a place of terror and unknown—not for his own sake, but for the very real sake of so many others.

It isn’t that Jaskier hasn’t whined, of course. He has. Extensively. With great feeling. But there is a difference between frustration and entitlement.

And now it’s in the past. _Mostly_. _Enough._ They watched each announcement come, one after another, with cautious hope, until finally, they agreed: _It’s time_.

Geralt stares at him. Jaskier, in real life, is almost too bright, too alive, too real. His eyes are so clear that Geralt can barely meet them. He feels like he’s shaking. He’s told him before, but it’s even clearer now, he realizes, _I would never have approached him in person_. He would’ve sat in the corner and watched him perform with his band and tried to ignore the ache. The _what-if_ …

Jaskier takes off his mask, and his fingers are nimble, as a musician’s should be. He can see them more clearly in person than ever possible on the computer screen. He has a dusting of hair on his knuckles. His fingernails are clean and tidily trimmed, not bitten to the quick like Geralt’s.

Geralt tries to remember the last time anyone touched him. _Ciri_ , he thinks _, when I watched her last month_. They had hugged before he dropped her off at home. The realization that the next person he touches will be Jaskier—that it will be _him_ touching Jaskier—sets his skin aflame. His fingers tingle. He clenches his fists and forces himself to calmly say hello, instead.

“My god you’re massive,” Jaskier says. “So big and… _real._ ” His cheeks redden, and the squeeze intensifies. Geralt wants to pull him into his arms. He wants to take his hand. He wants to run his fingers along the curve of his cheek.

Instead, Geralt says, “Hmm,” and curses himself. _Damn it, man, you talk for a living_. Of course, that isn’t strictly true. He _teaches_ for a living, and there isn’t a thing he wants to teach Jaskier. He wants Jaskier to teach him. He thinks, _How have I been able to talk to him every day for weeks when I can’t breathe now, just looking at him?_

“I mean, I know I’ve seen you,” Jaskier babbles. “Obviously. I mean, not like that, but, okay, that, uh, too, and anyway, I _have_ seen you but not like, with a banana for scale or anything—oh _not like that_ , I just mean, height.” He closes his eyes and sighs. “And like, muscles and _oh god I’m fucking this up aren’t I_?”

“No,” Geralt says. He smiles and hopes Jaskier can tell he means it.

Restaurants are open again, with some restrictions. They’re having dinner at a place Jaskier says he likes, with a sizeable patio for well-placed outdoor dining. They ordered upfront, and it’s actually nice to know they don’t have to worry about interruption. It’s there, food and wine, with a bottle of mineral water, and Geralt lets himself relax, somehow comforted by the knowledge that Jaskier is every bit as nervous as he.

And then something seems to break, and Jaskier grins. “So,” he says, “I’ve been meaning to ask you to tell me how Ciri’s school has been going.”

Geralt could talk for days about Ciri, so he takes a deep breath and answers.

They walk after dinner. The streets are emptier as the sun sets, and the heat is less intense.

“If things were back to normal…” Jaskier trails off.

“No such thing.”

“That may be, but if they _were_ , I would take you to a place I know with the most perfect rooftop bar. It’s just down the street.”

“The Passiflora?”

“You know it?”

“Everyone knows it.” Geralt lifts an eyebrow. He watches Jaskier’s face redden again. The Passiflora is a known hook-up spot, with sultry music and waitstaff tastefully dishabille.

“My band—we play there sometimes.”

“Oh.”

“Have you ever been?”

Geralt wipes his palms on his jeans. “I live a block south.”

“You… Really? I thought that was all commercial.”

“Not upstairs.” He licks his lips. “If you want, I can show you.”

Jaskier nods.

Geralt’s building is old brick, tuckpointed countless times, but with new windows and good insulation. The ground floor houses a store called Corvo Bianco. “They sell wine and olives,” Geralt explains, “and somehow manage to stay in business.”

“Well I’m not sure how I hadn’t heard of it before, but now that I have, I’ll probably be visiting weekly.”

“You like olives that much?”

Jaskier grins. “Yeah.”

Geralt passes the main entrance and opens a side door instead. Inside is a staircase and a lift, and Geralt tries to see it as if it’s the first time for him, imagining what Jaskier may be thinking. It’s an old elevator with a metal gate, and they take it to the top. _Will he find that inconvenient? It’s a bitch for carrying in groceries_.

The landing is wide. There’s a plain door, and beside it stands a pair of bicycles, locked together. “Yours?” Jaskier asks.

“And Ciri’s.” Geralt unlocks the door. He holds it open.

“It smells like teakwood and leather,” Jaskier says.

“Mm.” Geralt hangs his keys on the rack. He locks the door, then unlocks it, and then locks it again. His face is hot. “If we go onto the balcony…” He thinks, _I want to make love to you_.

“It’s fine.” Jaskier clears his throat. “Fine,” he repeats. Geralt leads him into the kitchen, and pulls a bottle of wine from his rack. “Your shirt looks almost violet in this light.” Geralt looks down. “At first, I thought it was black, but then I could see it’s blue. I can’t believe I’m actually here.”

“Is this okay?” Geralt shows him the bottle.

Jaskier nods. He stands across the island and watches Geralt pour wine. Geralt feels like every hair on his body is standing on end. When he hands Jaskier the glass, he thinks he can almost feel the heat of his fingers as they nearly brush together. When they’re seated on the sofa, Jaskier leans back and looks at him. Geralt can feel it in his blood. “I was afraid when we finally could meet, you wouldn’t want to,” Jaskier admits.

“Why?”

“You’ve probably got… options.” Jaskier takes a sip of his wine. He licks a droplet from his bottom lip.

“Options?”

“You’re… _you_. You know…” He waves his hand and gestures to Geralt.

“No, I don’t know.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “You look like a superhero with harlequin cover hair.”

Geralt frowns. “You don’t like my hair?”

“That is _not_ what I said.”

Geralt knows it’s old fashioned. Odd. It’s just easier this way because he can tie it back. “Hmm.”

“I’ll bet your students are crazy about you.”

Geralt scoffs. “My students are crazy about _you_.”

“I very much doubt that.”

“I read you some of the comments on the lecture videos.”

“That girl referred to you as _Daddy_.”

“I don’t think she meant it like that.”

“Oh yes she most certainly did.”

“Well. Barking up the wrong tree.”

“Because she’s a she?”

“Because she’s not you.”

A retort gets stuck in Jaskier’s throat, and he makes a choking sound instead. When he looks up at Geralt, his eyes have grown dark blue. Geralt watches him swallow, and his stomach clenches at the flex and curve of his throat. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve just sat with someone and talked?” Jaskier asks.

“Months.”

Jaskier nods. “You?”

“Other than Ciri?”

Jaskier sets his glass on the coffee table. He places his hand on the sofa cushion between them, next to his knee. His fingers are still.

Geralt rests his hand beside it, setting down his own glass.

Jaskier’s hand inches over, almost too slow to see. “Geralt,” he whispers.

Geralt takes a shaky breath, and then moves his hand to cover Jaskier’s.

Jaskier’s skin is cool. It’s smooth beneath his fingertips, and Jaskier turns his hand over, so that Geralt’s fingers trace along the lines of his palm. He hears Jaskier’s breath hitch and he lets himself explore.

The skin of Jaskier’s wrist is thin and pale, and he sees the blue lines of his veins and feels the delicate edge of his sinew and bones. His arms are dotted, here and there, with freckles, and he stops when he reaches his elbow, digging his middle finger into the curve. He grips his skin and muscle, and then something gives, and Jaskier swings himself over onto Geralt, pressing himself into his lap.

Geralt holds him. He wraps his arms around him and feels the warmth of a solid body against his chest. He feels his heart beat, and the throb of him breathing and shifting to reach his arms around Geralt, too. Geralt slides his hand up the back of Jaskier’s shirt and feels the heat of his skin on his palm and he presses them together. He buries his face in Jaskier’s neck and breathes him in. He lets his other hand travel up, into Jaskier’s hair, and he rakes his fingers through it, and then rubs it between his fingertips, testing the texture, getting to know it. His eyes burn, so he squeezes them shut. He feels Jaskier’s hands on his body, too. They thread through his hair and rub at his neck, and he can feel Jaskier shake.

Minutes pass before Geralt can form a thought coherent enough to act upon. When he does, the thought is _move_ , and his hands obey. He tugs gently at Jaskier’s shirt, and that sets him off like a fuse.

Jaskier is demanding. He scrabbles at Geralt’s shirt, stripping him of it, and then they stare at each other. Geralt realizes the tone has shifted his body’s reaction, too, and his cock is hard against his jeans, pressing against Jaskier. Jaskier rolls his body against it and whimpers, and his head tilts forward.

Geralt heaves in a breath, releases it, and then tilts his face up to meet him.

Their lips touch, and Geralt feels like he has left his body. Their chests press together, bare, and their lips meet, again and again, before Jaskier’s tongue traces against his bottom lip. He opens to it, and meets it with his own, and it’s _so much to feel_. Jaskier is everywhere. He fills Geralt’s senses: the taste of cabernet, the smell of vanilla and sandalwood, the sound of quick breath and bitten-off moans, and the feel of _him_ , his heat, all over him.

_When Geralt was a boy, Vesemir kept a vegetable patch. He grew tomatoes, and sometimes, when the weather changed, and the rains fell hard, they would grow so fast their skins would split. “It means they were too thirsty before,” he’d say. “Take better care.”_

Geralt feels like one of those tomatoes. He feels like one of those dried up boats he’s seen in pictures of drought-stricken lakes, suddenly set free on an outgoing tide. He runs his hands along Jaskier’s flanks and digs his fingers into his shoulder blades.

Jaskier moans against his mouth. “God you feel so good,” he whispers. He rolls his body against Geralt’s again, and then shifts his hips, pressing his arousal against Geralt’s.

Geralt growls and pulls him closer for a deeper kiss.

They manage to kiss through their boots being removed, and then Geralt lifts Jaskier, still wrapped around his waist, and carries him to the bedroom. Jaskier flexes his thighs around him, hooking his ankles at his back, and holds tight, while Geralt grips his ass. He drops him onto the bed and efficiently strips him out of his jeans. Jaskier breathlessly nods, reaching for Geralt’s fly. They make quick work of it.

Geralt presses Jaskier back against the pillows and cushioned headboard, and then he presses his face to his neck again, and licks and sucks kisses into it. He caresses and kisses his chest and his stomach, and then his hip, before he nibbles along the curve of his thigh, relishing the way Jaskier’s muscles flex and dance beneath his touch.

His cock, when he reaches it, is flushed and leaking. It’s rock hard and curved a bit, and Geralt sneaks a lick at the tip, tasting him. Jaskier lets out a throaty sound that is almost pained with need. “ _Fuck_ , Geralt.”

Geralt looks up at him, meeting his eyes, and then wraps his lips around him and takes it deep. Jaskier buries his fingers in his hair. His eyes roll back a little as his mouth goes slack, and his pleasure feeds the throb between Geralt’s own thighs. He feels like a knot has been tied behind his navel, from the nerves that stretch through his arms and legs, all the way to his chest, where it’s knitted into his lungs. He pulls back and strokes Jaskier in a slow drag that has him quivering.

He wants to feel more, though. He wants… _I want…_ “I want you…”

“Yes, please…”

“I want you to…”

“Anything, Geralt, _fuck_ …”

“To…” He pulls himself up, now astride Jaskier, and fumbles in the nightstand for supplies. “I want to feel you.”

“ _Yes_.”

“Inside.”

Jaskier’s kiss is fierce. He nods his head, and his hands are tireless as they grip and stroke Geralt’s body. “I’m… going to… _mmm_ , make it so good… for you,” he whispers. He presses at Geralt, and tips him back, and Geralt lets himself be moved. He lets Jaskier _touch_ and _taste_ , and at the first sensation of tongue against him, probing and exploring, he feels that he’s going to come undone. Jaskier rolls him onto his stomach and presses his face against him, licking and sucking, hands never stopping.

Geralt closes his eyes and _feels him_. He learns the callouses of Jaskier’s fingers are rough and drag against his skin, and it sends shivers through him. He learns that when he rocks his hips and groans, Jaskier knows the effect he’s having, and it makes his breath catch and quicken.

Jaskier presses a slick finger in, first, so slow it aches and nearly makes him convulse with need. He rubs his palm against Geralt’s lower back, and when his eyes sting again, he realizes he hasn’t ever been treated like this in bed—like he’s worth so much time, like he’s a thing of wonder.

When Jaskier presses against him, Geralt pushes himself back, wantonly, and Jaskier grunts. “God, yes, Geralt. So good, look at you.” He keeps going, voice husky and breathless as he rocks into him, gently going further with each stroke. “Do you know how incredible you are? _Fuck_. You feel so good, and you make me feel so good. You’re so beautiful, but you’re so smart and so good. I _hnngh, yeah_ , I’m so—god I’m so— _Geralt_ …”

“Jaskier,” Geralt rasps. He pushes back to meet him. It’s too much, this intrusion. He feels like his body is being stretched, and it’s a sharp pleasure-pain that makes him weak. Jaskier continues to stroke his back and hips, and his hands are cool on Geralt’s flushed skin. He gently fists into Geralt’s hair, and Geralt hears himself keen as Jaskier thrusts, fully, into him. He kisses along his spine, deeply rocking into him, again and again.

“I just… _Geralt_ , do you know what you, _fuck_ , what you _do_ to me? _God yes_.”

Geralt’s throat releases sounds, but they can’t be counted as words. _You do to me_ , he thinks, _what I have wished for so long, I thought was only a dream_. He thinks, _I sleep better when I’ve heard your voice_. He thinks, _I want you by my side every day_.

He wishes he had better words. He isn’t a poet, he’s a historian. He thinks of Alexander and Hephaestion instead. And then Jaskier quickens and Geralt doesn’t have to think of anything.

It’s the feeling of Jaskier’s hips jerking as he attempts to hold himself off that pushes Geralt over the edge. They’re both covered in sweat, writhing against each other in the softly-lit room, voices broken and breath gone. Geralt barely closes a hand over himself before he comes apart, shaking. Jaskier nearly shouts with it as Geralt clenches around him, and he follows him over the edge.

They hold each other and drift into sleep.

Geralt makes breakfast early. Jaskier pads into the kitchen as he switches off the cooktop, plating omelets. “You are a Renaissance man,” Jaskier teases, voice soft and scratchy.

Geralt pushes him against the island. “Mm,” he says, claiming his lips with his own. They drink coffee and look out the window together, watching the joggers and dog-walkers.

Later, he lays Jaskier across the dining table and thrusts into him in slow, deep strokes, reveling in the noises he makes as he comes undone beneath him.

He takes him fast and urgent in the afternoon, when he’s trying to plan a lecture and Jaskier won’t let him be.

They curl against each other at night, lost in a sea of cotton and down. “I almost forgot your sheets,” Jaskier yawns.

“We can get them tomorrow,” Geralt says.

Jaskier hums in agreement. “Mm. It can wait.”

Geralt pulls him closer and feels his breath. He smiles. They have time. They have all the time they need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your support and kind words through this story. Please know that every word you've shared with me has been greatly, greatly appreciated.  
> More than anything else, I hope you are safe and healthy.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you SO MUCH for clicking and reading!  
> Stay safe! Stay home if you can! Much love!  
> (also make sure you protect your privacy if you're using any video chat software for any reason, wink)
> 
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